


Schrödinger's Stories

by bluebeholder



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Multi, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Rare Pairings, Suitcase Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-08 16:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 32,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11649948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: A series of all the writing I do on tumblr. Alternate universes, might-have-been stories, could-have-been stories, and should-not-have-been stories. Pairings variable; will tag for these and other warnings by chapter; nothing over a hard T rating.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally moved all of these into one place...the title is derived from Schrödinger's Many Worlds interpretation, where he found that his equations were describing histories that were "not alternatives but all really happen simultaneously". Which is what most of these are. Timestamps, AUs, POV swaps...and so on. Relevant works will always be linked. 
> 
> For this first one: Credence/Graves, Everybody Lives AU, Auror!Credence, and explosions. Written originally for Truetomorrow.

An explosion went off somewhere behind him and rather than look Credence just dived out of the way. It would be Percival, of course, but Credence had bigger worries. He took aim at the fanatic charging at him. “Tarantellagra!” The man began to dance, a more than passable jig, kicking up his heels even as he shouted for backup.

Out of the corner of his eye Credence saw Percival take aim at the wall of the half-collapsed building where Grindelwald’s followers had been holed up. “Bombarda Maxima!” he thundered as a blast of light erupted from his wand. Credence reflexively threw his arms over his face. Debris flew everywhere and the force of the shockwave knocked Credence off his feet. The wizards who’d taken shelter behind the wall scattered.

He went to scramble up and found Percival waiting to help him. They stood still for a second, even though there was a firefight raging around them. “All right?” Percival asked.

“Fantastic,” Credence said with a grin. He threw out a Shield Charm over Percival’s shoulder, blocking an incoming Stunning Spell.

“Can you two get back to the fight!? Tina yelled, sprinting past in pursuit of a wizard. “You can flirt later!”

“Right,” Credence said, ready to go back to the fight. “Let’s go.”

Percival’s gaze flicked past him, up toward the iron beams of the bridge overhead. “Malegaunt is up there,” he said. “Together?”

“Lead the way,” Credence said.

Percival gripped his hand tightly and Apparated. They landed on one of the huge steel beams, amid a web of shadows. The fight raged on below, but here—

“It’s about time,” Malegaunt said, stepping out into view across a gulf between this and the next beam. “I was starting to think I’d have to come down and get you.”

This was Grindelwald’s trusted lieutenant, leader of the cause in America. The man responsible for the Houston Massacre, the man they’d come here to find.

“I didn’t expect you to bring such a young Auror along, Mr. Graves,” the warlock continued. “Unless this is the infamous Mr. Barebone? They’ve kept you a secret quite well.”

“Smart,” Credence said. He let go of Percival’s hand and paced along the beam, entirely sure of his feet. Even if he fell, well… “I’m Credence, all right.”

“Grindelwald wants you back,” Malegaunt said, following Credence with his eyes. “He’ll be glad to know you’re still alive.

The thrill of impending violence was in Credence’s blood, magic threatening to burst out of his skin. The shadows whispered and curled around him. “Good luck telling him about me after I dump your body in the river.”

“Surrender now and Credence won’t have any reason to hurt you,” Percival said mildly. Credence glanced at him—he looked completely calm, standing absolutely still. His long coat drifted around his legs in the wind that whistled between the supports of the bridge. But his wand was ready. The stillness was tension, readiness to strike. 

“I don’t surrender to men like you,” Malegaunt said. “Traitors to their heritage. Deniers of our right to rule.”

“I won’t argue ethics,” Percival said. He still didn’t move. Credence was halfway to Malegaunt, making no secret of his path. He didn’t care if the warlock knew where he was.

Malegaunt laughed. “Ah, yes, how could I forget? You’re Percival Graves, the man who plays at having power.”

“I don’t have to be a murderer to demonstrate my competence.”

“We both know the truth. I’ve seen you at your worst. You make such interesting noises when you’re hurt, did you know that?” It was almost invisible, but Credence saw it. Percival flinched. Rage ignited and he didn’t wait any longer.

“Confringo!”

It was clear that Malegaunt didn’t expect Credence to attack that quickly. He avoided the flames, but only barely, stumbling and off-balance. And by the time he found his feet, Percival was already moving, flinging his favorite Everte Statum across the gap between them.

The spell struck Malegaunt head-on, but as he hurtled into the air he managed a last-moment Apparition and reappeared right next to Percival. He lashed out with a shout and white light arced through the air. Percival was quick, but he didn’t have space to dodge on the narrow beam. He shouted in pain as the light struck him, and Credence could smell blood.

“Malegaunt!” he shouted. The warlock looked, and in the same moment Credence exploded. He didn’t need spells, barely needed a wand, when he was this storm of fire and magic. He could see everything, awareness everywhere he was, and he was everywhere. He knew the strength of the beams of the bridge, the depth of the caissons in the riverbed. He could touch Percival’s bleeding leg—not fatal, thank Merlin—and smell the sick stench of Malegaunt’s terror.

Credence went at the warlock with his teeth bared, keeping a fragment of himself there so the warlock could see his face. Behind Malegaunt, Credence saw an absolutely bloodthirsty smile rip across Percival’s face and he surged forward, hurling fire of his own. The warlock was very good, Credence would give him that: he managed to stave off their onslaught for a second or two.

Between the explosions below, the heat roaring from the furnace of Credence’s power, and the fire Percival lashed out with, the air was boiling. Sweat streamed from Malegaunt’s face and Percival’s breathing was ragged. Credence wasn’t bothered. Malegaunt and Percival were chain-casting spells, sending them ricocheting off each other and smashing holes in steel beams. Percival would have been more than a match for Malegaunt on his own, but Credence did his part in the fight. He was quite capable of dividing his attention, so he tore apart Malegaunt’s conjured attack dogs and interposed himself when Malegaunt tried for Unforgiveables. They didn’t hurt Credence. They couldn’t.

And then everything went wrong. Credence didn’t see the whole move but Malegaunt managed to hit Percival with a Trip Jinx. Percival pitched off the side of the beam, plummeting toward the ground, and Credence let out a roar that shook the entire bridge. He smashed into Malegaunt at full force, shattering his bones and forgetting anything about taking him prisoner, and dropped after Percival as fast as he could.

Credence caught Percival gently in a net of shadow and fire. He set the man down on the ground, ghostly arms clutching Percival close, and heard the wet thud of Malegaunt’s body hitting the shore somewhere just behind. The fight here was over, it seemed: Aurors were gathering around, murmuring nervously. They knew what Credence was. It was different to see it.

“Credence,” Percival said softly, reaching out to brush his fingers over Credence’s incorporeal face. “Time to bring it in, love.”

“I’m keeping you safe,” Credence whispered, containing his voice for the moment inside of the firestorm he is.

With practiced ease Percival drew Credence in, gathering bits and pieces of him up until there was a body more real than ghost in his arms. As the Obscurus faded, before the Aurors could see, before Tina got close enough to touch, Percival kissed him. When the shadows were gone, the fires dying out slowly along the shore, Credence was whole. He let Tina help him up, let Percival go so that he could be the Director of Magical Security again instead of Credence’s best friend and lover. What they are was an open secret, these days: as long as no one spoke of it, as long as they didn’t do anything overt, they’d never be taken to task.

“Hey, Mr. Graves?” Credence called, as Tina and another Auror checked him for damage.

Percival half turned. “Yes, Barebone?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

Credence grinned. “Make sure to tie your shoelaces next time.”

“Congratulations on your assignment to Wand Permits next week,” Percival said with a cheerful smile. The other Aurors laughed at that and Credence groaned. Warmth—not from a fire, but from happiness—rose up inside him, sending the Obscurus scurrying away to its dark corners. No fireworks necessary: they loved each other, and that was all that mattered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twilight fusion fic! A narrative, nothing detailed...but I like it.
> 
> Tags: Credence/Graves, Vampire!Graves, Vampire Suitcase Family, Human Credence, No Magic AU

Quiet homebody Credence Barebone moves to the rainy town of Forks, Washington looking for peace. He finally left a cult that he was in for his whole life and he needs some serious recovery time. Luckily, Forks is quiet and not very exciting at all.

This quiet lasts approximately six seconds before Credence finds himself nearly getting run over by a car outside the local grocery store.

Of course, he’s saved by an incredibly handsome man named Percival Graves, who practically breaks the car in half. He denies it, but Credence can’t help being intrigued. He keeps seeing Graves around town, and eventually discovers that the man is an ER doctor in Port Angeles, but lives in Forks with his…odd…extended family.

His sister Tina is the chief of police in Forks, his brother-in-law Newt is a park ranger, his other sister Queenie works at the local library, and the other brother-in-law Jacob owns a bakery in town. The family is charming, interesting, and never, ever, comes outside in the sun.

Things get stranger, because at the same time as Credence keeps seeing Graves around town, Graves looks progressively more and more irritated at seeing Credence. It’s like they’re magnets, but Graves is…a really angry magnet, you know? Credence has no idea what to do with the man, but he can’t help thinking that Graves is stupidly handsome with his dark hair and golden eyes.

It all comes to a head one night in Port Angeles, when Credence gets attacked in a back alley. It’s going to go really badly, but then, like some kind of angel, Graves shows up to rescue Credence. He gets Credence in the car and on the way back to Forks, and that’s when Credence notices the open cooler on the floor by his feet. Which is, of course, full of blood.

Because, you know, Graves is a vampire.

And he’s obsessed with Credence.

Credence kind of has no idea what to do.

At least Graves’ family–not really his family, as it turns out–is pretty great. Tina is strong enough to pick up a car, Newt can talk to animals, Queenie can read minds, and Jacob is able to manipulate time (albeit on a low level). And Graves can set things on fire with a snap of his fingers.

They’re a pretty cool group and they’re mostly okay with Credence hanging around these days. Although Queenie gives Graves some serious hell for coming home with a human, when he almost tore Jacob’s throat out trying to protect Queenie back before they turned Jacob into one of them. Newt takes to showing off all the park’s wonders to Credence, while Jacob–who hasn’t had a human taste-tester since he was turned–keeps Credence eating plenty of delicious food. Queenie makes him feel comfortable, and if Tina rolls her eyes a lot at Graves she’s still really nice and looks in on Credence in the evenings when things are dark.

But Graves…he’s still kind of scary. He’s nice, always nice, but there’s something eerily possessive about the way he looks at Credence. And Credence is getting drawn in deeper and deeper himself. He doesn’t want to be away from Graves, and he can’t tell if it’s obsession…or love. The idea of immortality and the inability to be hurt is appealing to Credence, but Graves refuses to turn him. He keeps saying that Credence is too young, that he’s got real life ahead of him, but Credence isn’t sure how much he believes that.

And that’s when the Volturi, led by the darkly charismatic Grindelwald, arrive in Forks. Rumor has it that the Forks coven has broken the most sacred of vampire laws not once, but twice–to expose the truth to humans.

Their arrival leaves Credence and Graves with a choice. Either the Volturi eat Credence and execute the whole Forks coven for breaking the law…or Graves turns Credence into a vampire immediately.

Take one guess which one they choose.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for katiehavok and american-auror-story on tumblr. 
> 
> Tags: Dark!Queenie, Legilimency, Psychological Horror

Tina has been gone for a long time.

Nobody noticed, because whoever noticed one of the Goldstein sisters? It just happened, one day, that Tina went away. No one misses her now. They never will.

“How was work, Teenie?” Queenie asks, when her sister comes through the door.

“Fine,” Tina says mechanically. She sits down and does not move again. Queenie can see the whole day in her head; Tina doesn’t need to talk. So she doesn’t.

The next morning they go to work together: Tina to the Auror Office, Queenie to the typing pool. It should be an ordinary day but something is not right. She can sense it. Unsettled minds that should be settled, nerves that should be calm. Queenie does not allow such things in here.

She needs to know. From her desk, Queenie reaches out, mind to mind across all of MACUSA, glance to glance and eye to eye, until she reaches her goal.

Seraphina Picquery is in her office. She doesn’t know that Queenie is there: she never does. Even as the President speaks with a committee, Queenie is inside her head, searching for whatever is upsetting her people.

And she finds it.

A secret attack on Nurmengard–well, not so secret, Queenie knew about it weeks ago–led by Director Graves himself. (Queenie had made sure her sister wasn’t on the strike team. That couldn’t be allowed to happen. She does love Tina, and it’s because she loves her that Tina can’t be allowed to be willful anymore. She’s in less danger, when Queenie is at the reins.)

But the attack went all wrong. Reports are confused, but the Director returns today anyway. Queenie will be glad to see him back. She broke in a long time ago–he was strong, but he belongs to her now–and she loves him. He’s still in there, locked behind bars of her making, and Queenie likes having him on her leash. That strength is bent to her will now, and her will means keeping the wizards of America safe. No one does that better than Director Graves.

When he walks into the building, Queenie feels an awful sense of wrongness. Whoever–whatever–just walked into her building is strong and sick and twisted and hasn’t got her mark on his mind. He’s not familiar.

She listens to him with growing horror as he charms the President, bypassing all her safeguards. She tries to get from one of her people into his head but she can’t–he’s well-protected enough that she can’t get in by proxy. She’ll have to go herself.

Queenie steps into the Director’s office with coffee and a brilliant smile. “Hi!” she says cheerfully. She sets the coffee down and slides into his mind, feeling out his defenses.

“Hello,” the man who isn’t the Director says. He studies her with eyes that don’t belong to her. It’s a sensation Queenie hasn’t felt in so very long and it makes her skin crawl. She’d begun her great work because she was tired of listening to other people. Now she only has to listen to herself, and this strange man’s eyes are hateful to her. “Queenie Goldstein?”

“Yeah, that’s me, honey,” Queenie says. She steps back to the door and closes it carefully, so no one will see. “Who are you?”

“Percival Graves,” he says, level and calm.

“Drop the act,” Queenie says sharply. No–she commands. She slams into his mind with hers and feels his defenses crack.

He looks shocked. “What are you?”

“I’m MACUSA,” Queenie says. She smiles sweetly at him. “I’m New York. And I know you’re not the Director because I’m the Director. So who. Are. You.”

She punctuates each word with another slam. Fragments of identity come down around her–eyes hair thoughts the Greater Good a wand a cloak a stone–and she knows.

“Grindelwald,” she says

He snarls like a wolf. “Yes,” he says. He tries to stand and Queenie lets him. “I know why it was so easy to kill the Director now. You weren’t there to pull his strings.”

“Lucky I have you, then,” Queenie says with the utmost calm. “Why don’t you get on your knees?”

Grindelwald fights her, of course he does. He doesn’t stand a chance. Queenie can make a city prostrate themselves at her feet. One man can’t even try to fight her.

“What are you?” Grindelwald says from the floor. He’s still struggling. Brave man–maybe he’ll be a good replacement for the real Graves.

“I told you,” Queenie says, “I’m New York. I’m MACUSA. And now, I’m going to be you.”

Grindelwald has an army, after all. And looking at him then, Queenie thinks–what if she could make the whole world like her? Make it all perfectly quiet, just the way she likes?

“For the Greater Good,” Queenie says, as she slowly tears into the wizard’s mind. “Isn’t that what you say?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another narrative summary. 
> 
> Tags: Wingfic

Wings are an expression of who you are. Their hue, the shape of their feather, their size all tell a viewer more about you than they should ever know otherwise. They change with you. They can be hurt, when you are hurt; they grow strong when you grow strong; they become more lustrous when you are loved.

Wizards and Muggles all have wings, of course, but they’re different. A Muggle’s wings are small, decorative, not meant for flight. But a wizard’s–a wizard’s are huge, meant to bear them into the sky. It must be magic, exposure to a constant tide of energy, that makes a wizard capable of true flight. But regardless, in this modern world, flight is not safe. The Muggles have taken to the sky in airplanes and it is no longer good for a wizard to fly. They are as trapped on the ground as the Muggles.

Enter Gellert Grindelwald, whose wings are white, like salt, like bleach, the color of death and mourning. He wants the world to bow before wizards as they did so long ago, when flight was permitted. He strikes from the heavens like an avenging angel, raining destruction on his enemies.

When the war in Europe touches American shores, Grindelwald is met head-on by the most powerful of American wizards. Seraphina Picquery, with her brilliant wings of true gold–not the mock-gold of a golden eagle–is the reification of power and might. And behind her is her shadow, Percival Graves, with wings darker than the night sky, so black that they become blue, in the right light.

Suddenly, Grindelwald disappears. His followers continue to wage war, but the man himself–is gone.

And so Newt Scamander comes to New York. His gray wings, dappled in black and silver, a perfect replica of a Hippogriff’s wings, are in surprisingly good condition, for a man who doesn’t have human friends. (What he knows is that love from even the smallest beast will keep one safe, and he pretends contentment with that.)

He meets Jacob Kowalski, a No-Maj with handsome chestnut wings that are perfectly groomed despite the dullness of their feathers. The more time Jacob spends with Newt, the brighter both their wings become. (And the longer Jacob’s become, although they don’t notice that just yet.)

Tina Goldstein takes them both in. Her wings should have been a nice color, but they’ve been left a sort of dusty, sad grey, all the color leached from them by unhappiness and hurt. (Newt preens her wings, and the touch brings back the steel blue her wings should be.) Her sister Queenie has elegant wings, russet on the ends of the feathers, soft to the touch, which shine with copper when she hears Jacob’s compliments.

In an alley, Credence Barebone, wings hacked from his back by his Puritanical mother who believes that to have wings is a sin in the eyes of God and His angels, meets with “Percival Graves”. He is promised wings, a restoration of his birthright, and he is desperate to believe.

Events move apace, and when Credence unleashes his Obscurus his wings erupt from his back in streamers of tainted, inky darkness that are no real wings at all. He is magnificent, a miracle, an angel of destruction and an apocalypse made flesh.

In the subway, when Credence has been blown from the sky and left a wracked wingless body on the floor, Seraphina reveals the truth of Percival Graves. The color drips from his wings and his wings are left the bone-white color of a corpse. He is, of course, Grindelwald.

And when they find Percival Graves his once-magnificent wings are gone. Of course Grindelwald had to clip them to hold such a powerful wizard; but of course he went further. His wings have been cut off. He will never fly again, because once gone, wings cannot come back.

This is where they stand, all of them: wings, and wingless, and fighting for a chance to take to the sky again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow-on to the preceding story, also written for katiehavok. 
> 
> Tags: Wingfic, Newt/Tina

_You’re hurt_ , Newt says, looking sideways at Tina.

_I’m not_ , she replies, looking steadfastly at the papers tacked to Newt’s wall. He has so many, of creatures Tina can’t begin to recognize. _I’m fine. Things are just…messy, right now._

Newt shrugs, slim hands deftly paring an apple. It will go to a Kelpie that lives in one of the ponds, along with the tangles of seaweeds and alfalfa in the bucket at his feet. _I do believe things are always messy._

_Well._ Tina looks out of the shed, to where Queenie and Jacob should be working and are talking instead. What a disaster. He’s a No-Maj. What’s Queenie thinking? _They’re particularly messy now. But I’m all right._

_Your wings are telling another story_ , Newt says.

Tina turns and looks at him. _What do you mean?_

Careful as always, Newt drops the apple into the bucket. He wipes down the knife and cutting board as he talks, constant flickers of movement almost soothing. _I know wings_ , he says. _Hippogriffs, Pegasi, Thunderbirds, Fwoopers, Simurgh–wings are a form of expression. Very social. People think that it’s all in posture, but it isn’t just that. It’s cleanliness, luster, color. If a creature’s wings aren’t taken care of, it’s hurting. And very often lonely._

Lonely.

_Are you saying my wings look bad?_ Tina asks, almost joking.

_They don’t look happy._

Tina flinches.

_Look, Tina…_ Newt’s hands twist around each other and he scuffs his boot against the corner of the floor and the wall. _I’m not good at people. Beasts are much easier. But we share some things. I can tell you’re hurting._

Softly, Tina says, _Maybe I am. So what?_

_So I want to help,_ Newt says. _How long has it been since someone else preened you?_

How long has it been? Tina hasn’t let Queenie touch her wings since…since before she’d been thrown out of the Auror Office. What does it matter, when she’s just locked up in a dusty basement doing menial labor only because the Director has half a heart? No one sees her. And of those who see her, no one really cares.

_Please let me help you,_ Newt says. For half a second he makes eye contact before looking away again.

_Okay,_ Tina says. She nods at him minutely and turns her back, leaning against the wall. She pulls off her jacket so he can get at the feathers nearest her shoulders and unfolds her wings.

She shivers when she feels Newt’s slender, careful fingers combing through the primaries at the end of her right wing. Barbs slide back into place, the small ruffles and tears that would make flying uncomfortable disappearing under Newt’s single-minded attention. Primary coverts and alular quills are next, and Tina shivers. He’s not just touching feathers–he’s gently brushing down displaced quills that she hasn’t bothered to fix, fingers stroking skin, not just feathers.

Over the alular quill coverts, down her secondary coverts, and into the secondary feathers. Even her own sister has never preened her like this. Tina didn’t realize how much she missed this, how much she missed this kind of gentle care. He works through the secondary coverts and the marginal coverts, missing not a feather. Tina doesn’t know how long she’s been standing there, leaning on the wall, and she doesn’t care.

Newt reaches her shoulder, past the tertial feathers, and stops. His warm hands simply comb through the down at the joining of her wing and shoulder. Tina blinks hard, eyes burning a little. She would stand here forever.

And then he steps off to the left and begins to preen her other wing. Newt is very kind: he ignores the fact that Tina starts to cry halfway through the left-side secondaries. He just keeps working until he’s done, and though Tina expects him to step away, he doesn’t. One hand stays at the juncture of her wing and shoulder; the other gently runs through her hair, as if he’s preening that, too.

Eventually she sniffles and turns to look at Newt. _Thank you,_ she says with a wobbly sort of smile.

_It’s no trouble._

_You didn’t have to._

Newt smiles, crooked. _I wanted to._

Tina folds her wings, sets her jacket to the side. She bites her lip and looks at him, really looks. If he’s right…his wings might be saying the same thing hers did. They’re beautiful and well-kept, but…dusty. Not an ounce of shine in them.

Like he’s as lonely as she is.

_Your turn,_ Tina says quietly.

For a moment, Newt only stares at the ground. His eyes flick to her and back to the floor. And then he turns, opening his wings for her. They’re huge, the wings of a creature meant to fly for long distances on impossible journeys. And isn’t that right for him?

Not without shyness, Tina steps up and resolutely begins to work on Newt’s primary feathers. The last person she preened was Queenie, and that’s a sisterly chore. They talk and gossip while they work–it’s just a function, just something to do. And Tina expects this to be rote work, something boring.

It isn’t.

She didn’t realize that Newt’s feathers weren’t just dappled gray and black. They’re silver, too; flecks like stars appearing under her hands as she gently disentangles caught barbs and smooths ruffled edges. His aren’t nearly as badly taken care of as hers, but it’s clear that there are some things that Newt just can’t reach alone.

And Tina can feel the muscles of his wings shifting, nervous energy just as strong in them as it is in his hands and feet and eyes. He doesn’t make a sound or ever once flinch, though, merely lets her work. Primaries, coverts, secondaries, tertials…Tina is almost sad when she reaches his shoulder. But he has another wing, and so she takes care of that, too.

_How long has it been since someone took care of your wings?_

Newt shrugs, the motion rippling his feathers. _A long time,_ he says quietly. _I’m quite self-sufficient, you know._

_So am I,_ Tina points out.

_You’re different._

_I am not,_ Tina says crossly. _I’m very self-sufficient too. I arrested you, didn’t I?_

At that, Newt laughs. _You did._

She slows down and stops, just as he did, leaving one hand between his wing and shoulder, running her fingers through his ginger hair with the other. _I’m glad I did, though,_ she says. She’s bold, because she can’t see his face.

_I’m glad you did, too,_ Newt says.

Tina’s heart skips just a small beat and she feels her feathers ruffle with pleasure. For a moment, spurred by the intimacy of all this, she rests her forehead against the nape of Newt’s neck. He sighs and relaxes a little, and reaches up with one hand to brush his fingers through Tina’s hair.

And then from outside Jacob calls, _Hey! Newt! One of your Mooncalves is acting up again!_

Tina gets back as Newt folds his wings in carefully. He glances at her and smiles a small smile. _Any time you want,_ he says, _just ask._

And then he’s gone down the steps, talking a blue streak to Jacob and Queenie. Of course Queenie has a knowing smile, but Tina ignores it. She pulls on her jacket resolutely, and just happens to glance at her wings. She can’t restrain a real gasp. They haven’t looked good for weeks, but now–the color is back in them, steel-blue, as gleaming as a sword.

She feels right, suddenly, as if she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.

_Thank you, Newt,_ Tina whispers, watching him rub the Mooncalf’s head with the same singleminded attention he’d just given her.

And as if he heard her, he smiles.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A ficlet set after the end of [Into The Woods](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11343843). Also written for Crimson_Voltaire.
> 
> Tags: Queenie/Graves, Morning After, Fluff

Mornings after are supposed to be awkward. All of them in Queenie’s experience have been. This one…is not. And it probably has to do with the fact that she has a literal fairy king standing in her kitchen wearing sweatpants and nothing else, trying to figure out the toaster.

“It was easier six centuries ago,” Percival says, aggrieved, “when there were not as many dials.”

“You can do magic,” Queenie points out. “How is this hard?” She’s sitting at the table, a cup of tea in front of her, watching. The morning sunlight streaming in the windows casts everything in a soft, buttery light. It makes Percival look magical.

“This thing isn’t exactly intuitive,” Percival says over his shoulder. “Can you conjure up the lost spirits of the dead from the Elysian Fields?”

Queenie laughs. “‘Course not. I’m not a fairy.”

“And I’m not a mortal,” Percival says, as if that ends the conversation.

He does work out how to set things, eventually, and sits down next to her. This is his house–or what passes for his house. It’s really an old, abandoned building that sits atop the remnants of a fairy fort. No one sees anything amiss here. Magic is really useful for that.

“Thank you for making breakfast,” Queenie says, putting her head on his shoulder. He rests his briefly against hers.

“A small service.”

“It’s great, though,” Queenie says. “Most guys don’t really like the morning after.”

“Ridiculous,” Percival says. “I am not 'most guys’.”

“You aren’t,” Queenie murmurs. She takes his hand and he laces their fingers together. All’s quiet in the kitchen for a moment.

The toaster pops and Percival rises. “Would you greatly mind getting plates?”

“In the top left, right?”

“Precisely,” Percival says.

Queenie turns away for half a second to pull plates–ancient, nearly transparent china–and when she turns back around Percival is about to remove the toast with a fork. “NO!” Queenie yelps.

Percival drops the fork and spins around. “What’s happened!?”

“Don’t put a fork in the toaster!” Queenie joins him at the counter, setting down the plates and pulling the fork out of his hand. “You’ll get electrocuted!”

“I will not,” Percival says. “I can summon storms, or did you forget about that?”

“You do not get to put forks in the toaster while I’m around, magic powers or not,” Queenie says firmly.

Percival watches in amusement as Queenie juggles the hot toast out and onto the plates. There’s butter and jam on the table already, and Percival flicks his wrist to send the toast to join them. Queenie watches in wonder and thinks how lucky she is.

“Thank you for worrying about me,” Percival says, kissing her forehead. “You are too kind to me.” Queenie stands on tiptoes to kiss him properly. She might never have been happier in her life than she is right now, even if it all seems like something out of a dream. And if it is, she never wants to wake up.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for toffy (accio-toffy on tumblr).
> 
> Tags: Credence/Graves, Obscurus, The Depression Metaphor Is Strong With This One

It’s an ordinary sunny day in early June, the kind of sleepy summer morning that nearly makes Percival wish he wasn’t an Auror, and could take a real vacation. This is a rare day when there’s no immediate business, no international crisis or imminent social collapse, and Percival intends to enjoy it as much as he can. This is his third cup of coffee–or, at least, he thinks, he does have a tendency to lose track. He’s been here reading the newspaper for so long, luxuriating in simply not having to do anything, that he’s lost all track of time.

As he sets down the cup on the kitchen table, Percival wonders where Credence is. It’s unusual for the young man not to be awake at this hour. It’s–he looks to the clock–after ten. Credence is normally up with the sun. Despite the calm of the morning, a spark of worry flares inside of Percival. He’s heard nothing from upstairs, not even a single footstep. And he certainly hasn’t seen anything to worry about, like shadows peeling themselves off the walls or any of the other things that tend to happen when something’s wrong with Credence.

He goes upstairs. They’ve kept separate rooms out of a respective desire for privacy, even if they more often than not spend the night together. The door to Credence’s room is closed, and Percival can taste the magic in the air, wild and dark. The air here is cold, still: the kind of atmosphere that comes before a storm. He stands in front of the door and debates knocking. Finally, though, he does. “Credence?”

“I’m here,” Credence says in a quiet voice.

Percival opens the door with caution. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust–the curtains are drawn and the lights are out, making it difficult to see even the pale, pajama-clad body curled like a comma on the bed. Shadows sigh through the room, not threatening, but soft and sad. “May I come in?”

Credence shifts slightly and in the light from the hall Percival can just see his face. “Yes.”

Careful not to make sudden moves, Percival crosses the room and sits down on the edge of the bed. Credence doesn’t move, even when Percival rests a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Bad time?”

“Yes,” Credence says. He sounds tired, frustrated, hurt. “I don’t know why, or what’s wrong. Nothing happened, I didn’t…”

“Shhh,” Percival says. He rubs his thumb in small, soothing circles on Credence’s shoulder, and feels the young man relax a little at the touch. “Do you want me to stay or go?”

Credence hesitates. “…stay,” he says at last. “I don’t…I don’t want to talk. Just…”

Percival bends a little to press a kiss to Credence’s temple. “All right. Am I allowed to open the curtains? Sunlight helps, in my experience.”

“Go ahead,” Credence says with a small smile. He’s opened the curtains on Percival before, and he didn’t bother to ask. Fair’s fair. Still, Percival doesn’t open the curtains all the way. The sudden entry of light to the room banishes the worst of the cloudy darkness.

He sits down again next to Credence and is unsurprised when the young man pulls lightly on his sleeve, a silent request to be held. Credence folds into Percival’s arms, head on his chest, safe and secure. It feels less like holding the strong young man Percival knows and more like holding a figure made of insubstantial shadows.

“I’m sorry about this,” Credence says after a while, in a quiet voice.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Percival says.

Credence makes a small, frustrated sound. “This doesn’t make any sense. I shouldn’t feel like this. You shouldn’t have to do this.”

“I don’t have to do this. But I want to.”

“You shouldn’t be wasting your one day off on me.”

“It’s not a waste,” Percival says. “I’m here, with you, and that’s what counts.”

He doesn’t get an answer, but the rest of the Obscurus draws back, hiding itself away under Credence’s skin, and the young man solidifies a bit more. The air is less oppressive, and the sun coming in through the window is bright. It might not be today, and it might not be tomorrow, but Credence will be all right. And Percival will be with him the whole way.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fantastic Beasts/Alien crossover. Crimson_Voltaire is the Ultimate Enabler, honestly. 
> 
> Tags: Implied Newt/Tina, Xenomorph, Mild Body Horror

“Newt,” Tina said, aware that her voice was shrill and panicked, “what is that thing?”

Newt ran a hand over the creature’s long, sleek head. It hissed, tail undulating, and wrapped around him like a cat. “I don’t know,” he said. “I found it in a crashed ship of some kind, just over there.” He pointed toward the hills, where the locals said people had disappeared.

Tina stared at the creature. It looked mechanical, like something out of a nightmare. It had a glossy black carapace, jointed like armor. Four thick spines protruded from the back, behind the elongated head, and a bladed tail lashed constantly. Its hands, disturbingly human, were clawed; likewise with its feet. And its mouth…were there two mouths? “Why did you bring it back?”

“It followed me,” Newt said. She noticed then that he was very still, making no sudden moves. “It’s not…aggressive. Immediately, anyway.”

The whole area was very quiet. The hair on the back of Tina’s neck prickled.

“Is it the only one?” she asked, slowly looking around.

“I don’t know,” Newt said. “I didn’t see any more, but…”

“Will it let you go back to the crashed ship?” Tina asked. What kind of crashed ship you’d find in the middle of Montana, she didn’t know, but–it couldn’t be good. Nothing about this was good. Missing people, strange semi-sentient creatures: she didn’t deserve to be an Auror if she couldn’t see how bad this was.

Newt looked at the creature. It hissed at him, saliva dripping from its mouth. “Will you lead us?” he asked, in his creature-voice.

It stared for a moment, and then loped off in the direction of the hills, fast and graceful as a big cat. Together, Newt and Tina set out in pursuit.

***

“This place is…huge,” Tina said, staring around at the magnificent, near-organic walls. The ship, if it could be called a ship, felt more like the inside of a great beast than a building. It had to have been built for giants!

Newt looked around. “I can’t see the beast,” he said, staring up at the ceiling.

They’d gone so deep into the ship that there was no daylight at all. Both of them had a Lumos on their wands, but in the vast darkness it made little difference.

And then there was a drop-off that Tina didn’t see. She screamed and fell, scraping and tumbling down a cliff to crash into a pit of what felt like mist. It glowed when it was touched, and Tina’s landing sent waves of light through the whole. And in that light…

“Newt, get down here,” she said urgently.

He scrambled down the embankment only slightly more gracefully than she’d fallen. “I see them,” he said. “What are they?”

Tina went toward one of the huge capsules. It was ovoid, with a cross etched in the top; when she touched it, the thing was fleshy. “…are they eggs?” she asked, looking at him with a sudden, awful feeling.

Newt came to stand by her, studying the leathery case. “They might be,” he said, “though I’ve never seen an egg quite like this…”

The object shivered, and the cross opened up like a flower in bloom. Tina leaned forward over it, wondering what was inside of it, if there was one of those creatures in infant form–

–and there was a screech–

–and something hit her face–

–wrapped around her neck–

–jammed down her throat–

–and Tina knew no more.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written at almostannette's prompt: "Make me cry." I obliged. 
> 
> Tags: Tragedy, Major Character Death, Implied Credence/Graves

He is smoke and shadows, when all is said and done. Blown into a hundred thousand pieces that he cannot collect and wouldn’t if he could. The wizards assume he is dead and gone and depart the subway tunnel, grieving for their dead and mending the city he wounded. He’s a wisp, a fragile piece of nothing, no purpose, barely any way to drift on the wind. And for a while, as if he is a piece of newspaper or chimney soot, this is all he does.

Gradually, he finds himself pulled. He falls through a sewer grate, over rats and rushing water still full of Swooping Evil venom, past iron bars and deep, deep, deep into the rotting heart of the city. He does not know why he’s falling this way, why he’s being drawn here, but he has no power to resist.

There is a cell, an oubliette buried deep in the bedrock. A crack barely as wide as a thread burrows through the sewer wall into the cell, and it is through this which he enters. A mere pinprick of sunlight strikes the center of the cell, and by this weak light he can see the man slumped against the wall. He is bruised and battered and terribly, terribly familiar, the only person in the world that the shadow has left.

For a while he can only wait. He gathers his strength, calling scraps and snatches of shadow and dust and ash to himself, the bones of dead mice making his bones, the legs of flies for hair. He builds himself into something that resembles a man again and, when he has a tongue in his mouth again, he croaks out the only two words he remembers. “Mr. Graves?”

The man does not startle. He turns his head weakly. “No,” he whispers, eyes wide with horror, “oh no, no, Credence, you must go…”

Yes, Credence, that’s his name. That’s what Mr. Graves calls him.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” Credence says. He drifts across the floor, because his arms and legs do not quite work like they are supposed to. “I’ve only got you.”

“There’s no way out,” Mr. Graves says. He coughs and something rattles in his chest. Credence can see his ribs, can see his erratic heartbeat. The man is so clearly dying. Credence has seen dying men before. “Anti-Disapparition Jinxes over the whole place…can’t cast a Patronus to send for help…”

Credence sits beside Mr. Graves. “Well, we’ll wait together,” he says softly.

“Can’t you get out?”

“I don’t think I can, Mr. Graves,” Credence says, glancing at the pinhole in the wall through which he’d entered. “And I don’t think I’d want to if I could.”

Mr. Graves shakes his head quite slowly. “You don’t deserve to die down here.”

“Neither do you,” Credence murmurs. He’s solid enough, he thinks, to take Mr. Graves’ hand. He laces their fingers, and if bits of him come trickling off like sand from an hourglass, well…so it has to be.

“What did they do to you?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence looks at the floor. “I think they killed me,” he says. “They tried, anyway.”

Mr. Graves reaches out with a trembling hand to tilt up Credence’s chin. The touch is so much different, Credence thinks, than that imposter’s. “I should have been there. To help you.”

“It isn’t your fault,” Credence says.

“I should have been stronger,” Mr. Graves says, with an effort. “For you. Done everything in my power…seen what you were, what you could be…”

Credence smiles a little. “Doesn’t matter. I saw what I could be, when you looked at me.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mr. Graves says. There’s silence in the cell for a moment, only Mr. Graves’ raspy breathing and the soft shifting of whatever Credence has become to break it.

Daring, in these last moments, Credence curls beside Mr. Graves, drawing the man’s shadow into himself. He solidifies a bit more. “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he says. “I met you, didn’t I?”

Mr. Graves begins to weep. It is not wracking sobs, but the slow trickle of tears down his emaciated face. He says nothing, but Credence thinks he might know what Mr. Graves would say, if he could. It would be the same thing Credence would say, if he had the courage.

“I believe in you, my boy,” Mr. Graves says, after a while. His eyes are closed and his head rests against the wall as if he would go to sleep.

“What?” Credence asks.

“You can get out,” Mr. Graves says, certain though his voice is only a whisper. “You can, Credence. If you could survive…everything else…”

Credence waits for a long interval before he realizes that there is no more forthcoming. He reaches out and splays a hand upon Mr. Grave’s chest. There is no heartbeat there, no breathing. His body is lax and limp, blood beginning to pool on the undersides of his arms, his face going pale and bloodless. Credence waits, watches, with nothing else to do, as the body cools, as it stiffens, as it begins to truly decompose. It hurts to see, but Credence has nothing else to watch.

Eventually, after he doesn’t know how long, he begins to seek a way out. Time passes strangely. Credence doesn’t know how long he’s been down here. There is a shaft of light overhead—but he can’t fly, not anymore. He can’t fit through the crack in the wall. He doesn’t know how to transport himself like Mr. Graves, and he couldn’t anyway if he tried. He hurls what magic he has against the walls, trying to hurt, to burn, to break through the stone, and he can’t.

Shadows and dust, he wraps around Mr. Graves’ skeleton, ghostly fingers tracing a skull that could have been anyone at all. He touches every single bone, memorizes the whole skeleton, curls himself inside Mr. Graves’ ribcage, listening where a heart used to beat. It’s safe there, in the embrace of a dead man. Whether Mr. Graves believed in him or not—Credence can’t get out.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again: Crimson_Voltaire got me to do this one. It's a pre-series timestamp for [the Shell Shock trilogy](http://archiveofourown.org/series/750960). 
> 
> Tags: Theseus Scamander/Percival Graves, Bed Sharing

It’s so late that it’s early. Percival is exhausted beyond words, barely able to think straight. The day has been long because they’ve spent the entire day chasing down a crew of witches hell-bent on tearing Uppsala in half. The Aurors all made it in one piece, but Percival feels like his hands might fall off if he casts so much as one more spell.

“All right. Take the morning, everyone,” he tells the Americans, while Theseus gives his own directives to his people. Percival forces himself to look alert, keep it together, as he always must, even though he feels asleep on his feet. “The conference has been postponed for a day. We’ll debrief around noon, but I don’t expect formal reports.”

“Oh, thank Goody Proctor,” one of the Senior Aurors mutters.

Percival does not have the energy to glare. “That’s everything. Dismissed.”

The Americans break up, talking amongst themselves and heading for their rooms. Not a moment later, the Brits do the same thing, and Theseus wanders over. “Are you as bloody fucking exhausted as I am?” he asks.

“I am,” Percival says, allowing himself to droop slightly. Theseus knows him. There’s no boundaries to break here. “Bed?”

“Yes, please,” Theseus says.

They head upstairs together. Out of the many ridiculous situations in their lives in which they’ve found themselves, this might just take the cake. They weren’t here to fight crime. Rather, delegations of Aurors from America and England were in Uppsala for a conference about new methods of magical law enforcement being developed by the Swedes. And when the witches had started trying to pull the city apart, of course Percival had agreed to help out.

They barely bother with stripping off shoes and jackets. Percival tumbles into bed first, not even pulling the covers over himself. Theseus follows a moment later, hitting the bed with a thud. He waves his hand and the lights go out. For a moment, there’s just silence. Percival relishes the calm and the quiet. He begins to drift off, only to be interrupted by Theseus turning over.

“Hey, Percy?” he murmurs.

Percival rolls over, facing Theseus in the dark. “Yes?”

“Nice job out there today,” Theseus says. Percival can’t see anything, but he feels Theseus brush a hand over his face, sweeping loose strands back. “That was…real good.”

“You too,” Percival says. He takes Theseus’ hand and squeezes it. “Not a bad day. Just…long.”

“Yeah,” Theseus says. “We worried about anyone coming in here?”

Percival summons all his will and points in the general direction of the door. “Alohomora,” he says, and the lock clicks in reply.

Theseus chuckles. “Nice,” he says, and rolls back over, still holding Percival’s hand.

The move pulls Percival flush against him, Theseus’ back to Percival’s chest. Percival settles into it, enjoying the proximity, the familiarity. Tomorrow they’ll wake up and go back to being professionals—close friends, but professionals—but right now, half asleep, neither of them quite in their right mind, Percival does not care about any of that. He presses a dry kiss to the back of Theseus’ neck and the other man curls in closer in reply. The last thing Percival remembers of that night is being wrapped around Theseus, tangling their legs and feeling Theseus breathe.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a reverse POV of the Big Damn Kiss in [Chapter 30 of _a better mirror_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10515756/chapters/24820401). 
> 
> Tags: Credence/Graves, Alternate POV

The night is dark, but Graves’ wandlight is enough to see by. Credence feels shaky with nerves, like he’s going to burst out of his skin. He’s nearly tripped and fallen once already, not because of a rock but because oh by the way Percival Graves just admitted that he’s in love with Credence.

That would make anybody trip, Credence thinks.

And now Graves is going on about–whatever it that’s worrying him, about age and power and Credence can’t stand it. There’s nothing normal, there’s nothing all right about any of this. Rules don’t apply. He’s a witch, and a homosexual, and Credence isn’t going to get hung up on something like age at this point.

He turns and takes Graves by the shoulders. The man looks surprised, and maybe he’s right to be. Credence isn’t exactly acting as expected. “You are the densest person I know,” Credence says, exasperated. “If what you’re worried about is having too much power because you’re older than I am—well, that’s going to have to go both ways, I might explode into an Obscurus at any second and if you want to talk about power that’s where to start.”

Graves shakes his head. He looks concerned and Credence hates it. This isn’t what he wanted. “That’s not the kind of power I’m talking about.”

“Doesn’t matter to me. You’ve never once taken advantage of me in any way. And you could have, when we met.” He could have. If Graves had asked him for–anything–Credence would have done it. He’d have killed for the man. He’d have let Graves hurt him in a hundred ways and never cried out. He’d have gone straight to Graves’ bed without a single question. “I’ve have let you do anything you wanted. You have to know that.”

Graves blinks rapidly, visibly taken aback. “That never even occurred to me,” he says. Credence’s throat closes, because of course it hadn’t. Of course. That’s why Credence had trusted him so quickly, because he’d done something as simple as let Credence close a Goddamn door. “But—even so—you and I aren’t the image of sanity. I have my problems, you have yours. It’s not safe for either of us.”

God give Credence patience. “Since when have we ever done the safe thing?” he demands. His voice is too loud in the night and he forces himself to lower his voice. “You make me a little more sane. I mean, you’re not the only one, the others are the best friends I’ve ever had. They could calm me down if I went all…Obscurus. But, God, Graves, you’re the only one I’d _want_ to do it.”

Graves looks utterly lost. He’s staring at Credence like they’re strangers.

Credence doesn’t quite know what to do with that. The ground is more unsure than ever, when Graves doesn’t know what to do. “I don’t know if this would even change anything,” Credence says. He glances at his hands on Graves’ shoulders, at the tiny space between them, and wants. “Look at us. I just want to be able to show you how I feel about you without being afraid you’ll…”

“Credence.” Graves cuts him off sharply and Credence swallows his words. He looks suddenly stern, sure of himself, and it’s a relieving return to the familiar. “Even if I didn’t feel the same way, I wouldn’t abandon you just for that.”

That’s it. That’s all. That’s everything. “See,” Credence says softly, “that’s what I mean about you. You’re a good man. The best man I know.”

And of course, because he’s absolutely Goddamn impossible, Graves has to protest that. “I’m neither good nor safe to be around. I’m damn near suicidal on my best days. I attract trouble. You heard what Tina said about me: all I can really do is fight—”

Really, Credence wants to scream. “Stop it,” he says. He squeezes Graves’ shoulders tight, with force he’d never dared before. This isn’t even about Credence anymore, it’s about Graves and his absolute belief that he’s irredeemable when the only thing he’s done is save everyone over and over and over again. “If you can’t see the things about yourself that make me love you, then God damn it, you need to get a better mirror.”

For a moment, Graves just stands there. He’s not staring–he’s studying. And Credence waits, feeling like he can’t breathe. He’s done his part. If Graves doesn’t want this then there’s nothing more that Credence can do.

And then, finally, finally, finally, Graves’ hand is on Credence’s cheek and his mouth is on Credence’s and Credence melts. He’s safe and loved and feels real happiness welling up inside him. His fingers get all tangled in the front of Graves’ shirt, clumsy, and he feels awkward for half a second before Graves’ wand hand comes to rest reassuringly on the small of Credence’s back.

It’s Credence who breaks the kiss because he’s fairly sure that he actually forgot what “air” is. He’s trembling and he can’t stop. This was a mistake, wasn’t it? But no: Graves is smiling. It’s gentle and kind and Credence’s heart turns over.

Careful, as if he’s trying not to frighten Credence, Graves brushes a thumb over Credence’s cheekbone. “In case you missed it, Credence,” Graves says very softly, “you are my better mirror.”

For the first time, Credence believes.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, really, REALLY short and not technically from tumblr: but CarrotSticks, in Chapter 23 of _a better mirror_ , mentioned a Pacific Rim parallel.
> 
> Tags: Drift Compatibility, Pacific Rim Fusion

Percival Graves and his partner held the wall in their Jaeger "Auror Phoenix" for six years, under Marshal Seraphina Picquery. Two years ago, they suffered a terrible defeat and Percival's partner was lost. Crippled by the psychological damage of Drifting with his partner when they died, Percival was pulled from the front lines of combat, replaced by pilots Gellert Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore in the Jaeger "Deathly Hallows". Since then, he's been watching from the sidelines as the Kaiju come ever closer to breaking out of the ocean and fighting their war on land.

Enter, of course, Credence Barebone. Rescued from an illegal Drift-experimentation operation that left him permanently scarred, he's put to work in the Jaeger program because there's nowhere else for him to go. He was never supposed to meet Percival, but he does, and the second their eyes meet it's obvious that they're Drift-compatible. Because things are getting ever more desperate, Picquery authorizes their move to the front lines and the creation of their Jaeger, "Obscurus".

Although both of them have a lot of demons--real and psychological--to fight, they've got the best support possible. Newt Scamander, Kaiju biologist; Jacob Kowalski, mathematician and physicist; Tina Goldstein, Jaeger mechanic; and, last but certainly not least, Queenie Goldstein, Drift technician. It's up to these four to keep Obscurus, Percival, and Credence in fighting shape, because the Kaiju aren't stopping.

Just when they think they might have turned the tide, something goes terribly wrong. There are things man was not meant to know, and one of those was the mind of a Kaiju. In an attempt to better understand his enemy, Grindelwald initiates a Drift with a recovered Kaiju brain. He doesn't come back, but one of the things from the other side--one of the Precursors--does. And suddenly the enemies from the Rift are far, far closer to home.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Prolific author strikes again. 
> 
> Tags: Credence/Graves, Wingfic, Hurt/Comfort

Credence doesn’t have wings, not now. Not anymore. He had them, for those agonizing, beautiful moments when he was free, but they blasted the Obscurus out of him and took his battered, broken wings when they did. And he feels strangled again, trapped, caught on the ground. He hates it. He hates it so much it’s choking him.

MACUSA remanded him to the custody of the Goldsteins, when his recovery in the hospital is complete. He feels awkward, in the house with two women and their beautiful wings, Tina all steel-blue like a sword and Queenie in her gleaming lovely copper. He feels strange, with his scarred back and wings-that-aren’t, the few feathers still clinging desperately to his shoulders. He can’t stop hunching in on himself, even though the girls tell him not to be ashamed. He’s so out of place, among all these wizards.

Credence keeps to himself. He drifts through the shadows, wingless, unnoticed by everyone. His magic is still there, but weak, so damn weak, and he clings to it desperately because it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted. His wand is fir, and it has a dragon heartstring core.

_Curious_ , says Jonker when they visit (this has to be a special order, because Credence won’t attend Ilvermorny), _this wand has a twin, you know_.

_Wands have twins?_ Credence asks, dumbstruck.

_The heartstring in this wand and one in another came from the same dragon_ , Jonker explains. He looks keenly at Credence, at the space where his wings should be, and Jonker’s owl wings flutter in the dust of the workshop.

_Whose was it?_ Tina asks.

Jonker blinks slowly. _Percival Graves_ , he says.

Of course it is, Credence thinks bitterly in the days to come. Of course he can’t get rid of the man, of his shadow. It wasn’t the real Percival Graves who hurt him, they tell Credence; it wasn’t the real Percival Graves who promised Credence wings and magic. Credence resents the man anyway. He has beautiful wings, huge and perfect and black as midnight, the kind of wings Credence dreamed about when he dreamed of angels.

He doesn’t dream of angels anymore, so what does it matter?

And Credence is shocked when he finally meets the man.

It’s an accident. Credence is dropping off a note from Queenie at Jacob’s bakery when it happens. It’s a slow time, when no one else is in, so Credence is just standing there chatting shyly with Jacob. He’s got his back to the door, and when the bell jingles Jacob looks up.

His eyes get sharp. _Kid, give me a minute, would ya?_

Credence turns and his heart almost stops. There–there right in front of him–is Percival Graves. But it isn’t, it’s not him,  it’s not, because where are his wings?

_Hello, Jacob_ , the man says, sounding so tired. He doesn’t look like the Director of Magical Security, like the man who’d come to Credence in that alley like an angel from Heaven. _Am I intruding?_

_I was just talking to Credence,_ Jacob says.

And then Percival’s eyes get sharp, and he looks at Credence, really looks. _I hope it’s a pleasure,_ he says. _I’m Percival Graves. The real one, I mean._

Credence can only stare at the empty space at the man’s shoulders.

Where are his wings?

_I’m not what you expected, am I?_

_No,_ Credence says softly.

_He took a lot from me,_ Percival says, tone shockingly light. _Wings. Job. Sanity, if you ask the Senate_.

Jacob leans on the counter _. Hey. Percy. Why don’t you come over and have dinner tonight with us?_

Percival is still studying Credence. _If you’re all right with it?_ he asks, right to Credence’s face, like Credence matters.

_Yes,_ Credence says.

It’s a strange gathering that night in the Jacob’s apartment. There are four men; of course they have to meet somewhere else. No one mentions the tension between Credence and Percival; that somehow makes it worse. Credence can’t stop wondering where the other man’s wings are. How could a wizard–how could someone like Percival Graves not have wings? How could he be anything like Credence? And it’s all the more noticeable, surrounded by Newt’s gorgeous Hippogriff wings and Tina’s steel-blue ones and Queenie’s which glow rosy gold around Jacob and Jacob’s ever-longer wings.

Dinner is good, and Jacob and Newt between them make Percival smile, and Tina holds Credence’s hand when things get to be too much. And at the end of the evening, the Goldstein sisters leave (Newt’s staying with Jacob for now), and Percival…well. He asks if Credence would like to come over and talk for a while.

Credence goes.

It’s really awkward, in Percival’s house, because it’s clear that everything is set up to make space for wings. And he hasn’t changed it yet. Credence doesn’t know what to do with his hands, what to say.

_You can ask._  
  
What happened to your wings?

Percival stares out the window at the lights of New York. _Grindelwald cut them off,_ he says. _I’d have gotten out if I’d had them._

_Oh._

_I’m sorry for what he did to you,_ Percival says.

Credence bites his lip. He doesn’t know what to make of this man, who he’s resented for so long. He’d expected someone arrogant, proud, wings huge and imposing, not…this. Not a man like Credence, battered and weary and tired and bound to the ground. _You don’t have to apologize._

_We should have saved you sooner. I should have stopped him._  
  
No one knew. Not even me. But you’re…not like him.   
  
No?  
  
No.

Percival’s gaze holds Credence’s. _Good to hear_ , he says. 

This isn’t their last conversation. Credence sees Percival more and more often. Sometimes they talk: sometimes they don’t. They get closer by sheer accident of being the only two people in the whole of magical New York without wings. They don’t stare at each other, or find it awkward.

Credence, who’s used to not having wings, helps Percival rearrange his house so it’s less obvious that there used to be need for space. Percival takes Credence places: to libraries, to museums, to places Credence has never dreamed of. They do horribly domestic things. Credence convinces Percival to buy a toaster; Percival teaches Credence how exactly you tie a tie. Percival–inheritor to a huge fortune–and Credence–up until now unknown–are unemployed. They have time. And they spend most of it together.

It seems inevitable, their attraction. Maybe it starts with Credence taking Percival’s hand suddenly in a movie theater one night. Maybe it starts when, standing on the shoreline, Percival runs his hand through Credence’s windblown hair. Either way, it all comes to a head one night when Credence suddenly kisses Percival. 

It feels like flying. 

They trace each other’s scars, and don’t say a word, because what the hell is there to say? Credence moves in with Percival, and no one says anything. They look a little less broken, around each other.

And it comes as a shock to everyone–not least of all Percival and Credence–when they realize that, agonizingly slowly, their wings are coming back. Feather by feather by feather, with every single touch and glance–they are. Someday, they’ll both have their wings again.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crack. Unashamed, unabashed crack. A little dense on the gaming terminology, honestly, I hope it all works out.
> 
> Tags: Modern AU, Friendship Fic, The Pineapple Man, D&D

Grindelwald is the DM, which…well. He’s a railroader of the highest caliber, like…he has plans within plans to make sure that everyone plays the game His Way And His Way Only. But he’s charming and funny to a fault, and nobody really suspects a thing about his problems. 

Of course his plans go awry from Day One. He has seven players, with varying degrees of experience: **Percival Graves** , who’s been playing D&D since at least 1983, when he had the red-box Basic Set; **Seraphina Picquery** , who has more experience with White Wolf’s Storytelling System and the new World of Darkness; **Tina Goldstein** , who’s a diehard 4th Edition player and is incredibly wary of 5e; **Queenie Goldstein** , who’d usually prefer to paint miniatures than actually play; **Jacob Kowalski** , an avid miniature wargamer who normally plays Warhammer 40K and is taking a shot at D&D for the first time; **Newt Scamander** , who hasn’t played in years but has every Monster Manual and Fiend Folio since 1977 memorized cover to cover; and, last but not least, **Credence Barebone** , a college kid out on his own who wants nothing more than to try out the “witchcraft” his mother believed D&D to be.

Character creation is…interesting, to say the very least. Tina jumps in to play a Lawful Good paladin, Seraphina makes a high-Charisma cleric, Newt creates a druid and sneaks in a way to get himself multiple animal companions through a six-page backstory Grindelwald barely bothers to read, Jacob plays a fighter (not the Champion archetype–he plays the Battle Master archetype, which is COMPLICATED), Queenie decides on a skill-monkey rogue, Percival plays an Evocation-build wizard with the War Caster feat because he plans on charging straight into combat, and Credence rolls up a _nightmare_ of a homebrew class called a [“Black Blood”](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.dandwiki.com%2Fwiki%2FBlack_Blood_%285e_Class%29&t=YmZmNDE1ZGU0NmExN2UwZGFmOGMyZjI0MmJlZTdhNDUwOTQ2NTE1NSxTRGdGSDdwbg%3D%3D&b=t%3AVJOuiL3IGZF2HPQBSRSgnw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fwanderingnork.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163610803820%2Fi-present-dd-with-the-suitcase-family-again-a&m=1) which Grindelwald allows because…well, he doesn’t really think it will matter much. 

The first few sessions are fun enough, It’s just kobolds. The party dynamic is really good: Tina and Jacob have fun tanking together, Seraphina discovers the joys of a cleric’s Light Domain, Newt uses Wild Shape every chance he can, Queenie turns out to be a frighteningly good strategist, Percival enjoys simply making things explode, and Credence realizes pretty quickly that he’s maybe just a little OP but nobody cares, right? It’s not like he’s got immunity to slashing damage yet or anything. 

Around the fifth session, things go…wrong. Grindelwald’s story finally kicks into high gear, and it starts with this premise: the world, as the party finds out, is at war with the gods. Mortal kings want to take their place as heads of the pantheon. (Seraphina, as the party cleric, is kinda pissed about this.) The heroes are supposed to be the ones prophesied to “bring down the heavens”, but Newt (always Newt, somehow) is a wrench in the works. 

In a particular city, there’s to be the execution of a great [couatl](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FCouatl&t=MTdkYzFlNjc2Y2UwNzU5YTA1ZTYyNTQ4MzRiZTM5MzM2ZmQzZGNmYSxTRGdGSDdwbg%3D%3D&b=t%3AVJOuiL3IGZF2HPQBSRSgnw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fwanderingnork.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163610803820%2Fi-present-dd-with-the-suitcase-family-again-a&m=1), a servant of a deity of light, and the heroes are expected to preside over the ceremonies. Newt not only refuses to take part, he convinces the entire rest of the party to help free the beast instead and flee with it into the wilderness. 

Grindelwald is LIVID.

He cuts off the session early that night and reworks half the campaign so that the heroes are now the villains, the ones who are trying to stop the Great Work of destroying the boundaries between man and god. But even this doesn’t shut down the party’s antics. Tina and Seraphina put their heads together to amass divine power and start an alliance of clerics from many faiths, calling on the gods to intervene properly. Jacob, a 5th-level fighter, challenges Grindelwald’s NPC CR 8 king to single combat–and WINS. Queenie disrupts a ritual meant to bring the Astral Plane crashing into the Material Plane by stealing a gem that was the focus for the whole thing. Percival hacks off his own hand to put on the [Hand of Vecna](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.tribality.com%2F2014%2F10%2F23%2Feye-and-hand-of-vecna-orb-of-dragonkind-dmg-5e-preview-unlocked%2F&t=Njc2N2I2MzFhYWRkZGYwZTZlNzViZjEyYWExMzI3MDk2YTI4ZTIwZSxTRGdGSDdwbg%3D%3D&b=t%3AVJOuiL3IGZF2HPQBSRSgnw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fwanderingnork.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163610803820%2Fi-present-dd-with-the-suitcase-family-again-a&m=1) and, when that artifact isn’t enough, goes questing for the Eye of Vecna to get those abilities too. Credence just progressively gets more and more and MORE overpowered, hitting everything Grindelwald has and simply blowing it all away. Newt participates in an earth-shaking druidic ritual meant to awaken the [Tarrasque](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FTarrasque_%28Dungeons_%2526_Dragons%29&t=OTAzNzVjZTczNjAzODEzYjRjN2ZlYmVjNDNjOTE5YzQ1MjkxMjkxMixTRGdGSDdwbg%3D%3D&b=t%3AVJOuiL3IGZF2HPQBSRSgnw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fwanderingnork.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163610803820%2Fi-present-dd-with-the-suitcase-family-again-a&m=1) and unleash its mighty power against the cities of mortals.

And of course, Grindelwald prides himself on being a good DM. That means, if the players are doing things legally, he goes along. That doesn’t stop him from rewriting the story at all costs, desperate to shoehorn the players into doing what he wants them to do. He withholds treasure, kills allies before the party’s eyes out of sheer spite, breaks artifacts in their hands, throws monsters five levels too high at them for every encounter so that they’re constantly half-dead and running out of spells and equipment, and says “no” more and more times during every session. He sets Stealth DCs too high so Queenie gets caught. He throws poisons and effects at Jacob instead of real attacks. He makes sure that every NPC is able to foil Tina’s Divine Sense. He sends angels and archons after Percival because he’s neutral evil now and that automatically means he’s opposed to reality. He forces Credence to use his Madness abilities to attack his friends. He effectively nerfs Seraphina by making it so that the gods are no longer answering any mortal prayers. 

Seraphina has figured out what’s going on, and clued in Tina and Percival, and now all three of them are actively working to thwart Grindelwald’s plan. They’re much more interested in telling the story that the players want to tell, even if it means Credence is OP as fuck (he’s resistant to all damage and is rolling d20s for everything now instead of nice, normal d12s) and Queenie and Jacob are mostly just flirting in-character. And they don’t want anyone to be forced into doing things they don’t want.

In frustration, Grindelwald drops a bombshell meant to scare the players straight: the lost god Vecna, keeper of secrets and the original owner of the Hand and Eye Percival’s wizard is wearing, appears to the party. He warns them that their continued actions will have cosmic consequences, and that they should turn on the gods right now. He even offers to let them start with him. 

The party flatly refuses. “We’ve come too far. I cast Shapechange on myself, red dragon, thanks for throwing those at us three sessions ago,” Newt says, glaring at Grindelwald across the table. “Yeah, I draw my sword and declare [Dodge](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Froll20.net%2Fcompendium%2Fdnd5e%2FCombat%23toc_25&t=OGIzZThjNTFiMDE5ODRlZThlMTM2MGU1ODZkYWI0OTJjNDY0NmFjNCxTRGdGSDdwbg%3D%3D&b=t%3AVJOuiL3IGZF2HPQBSRSgnw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fwanderingnork.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163610803820%2Fi-present-dd-with-the-suitcase-family-again-a&m=1),” Jacob says. “I prepare [Flame Strike](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Froll20.net%2Fcompendium%2Fdnd5e%2FFlame%2520Strike%23content&t=M2UzZmVlZDU2NmY1ZjI5NGI4OTFiNGMwODkyMGRjMjc4YjRiYTcwMSxTRGdGSDdwbg%3D%3D&b=t%3AVJOuiL3IGZF2HPQBSRSgnw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fwanderingnork.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163610803820%2Fi-present-dd-with-the-suitcase-family-again-a&m=1) at 9th level,” Seraphina says, flipping frantically through the Player’s Handbook. “I create my Blood Armor,” Credence says. “I cast [Beacon of Hope](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fengl393-dnd5th.wikia.com%2Fwiki%2FBeacon_of_Hope&t=ZTA0ZmM5MWUxMjkyNzA3ZjJlNzAxMThmNDUxNjczODliMDBjMjM2YSxTRGdGSDdwbg%3D%3D&b=t%3AVJOuiL3IGZF2HPQBSRSgnw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fwanderingnork.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163610803820%2Fi-present-dd-with-the-suitcase-family-again-a&m=1). And get ready for a Divine Smite, bitch,” Tina says. “I prep Disintegrate. From Vecna’s own eye,” Percival says.

“I was hiding and we haven’t rolled initiative so I should get surprise,” Queenie points out. Grindelwald tries not to choke on his tongue as he nods. She picks up her d20. “I attack. Plus 17 to hit, 10d6 points of sneak attack if I do…”

And Queenie rolls a critical hit. 

The whole party loses their collective shit, screaming and cheering, in one memorable case kissing Queenie full on the mouth and in another picking up her die and kissing it. Meanwhile, Grindelwald is having a silent meltdown. He just lost. He just LOST to a PLAYER. 

So he does the unthinkable. 

He causes Vecna to summon his eye and hand off of Percival’s wizard. One of the traits of those artifacts is that, if they are ever removed, the bearer dies. In a single turn of combat, before initiative has even been rolled, Percival’s character is dead. 

“This wouldn’t have happened if you’d just played the game the way you were supposed to play it!” Grindelwald snarls. “Roll initiative!”

He intends to kill them all right there and then. He has Vecna’s statistics in front of him and at this point he’s willing to fudge every die roll to make this end how he wants it to end. 

Seraphina drops her Flame Strike on Vecna first round; Grindelwald burns Legendary Resistance on her and makes the saving throw. Jacob and Tina charge straight into combat and even though they hit hard, Vecna is still standing. Newt attacks, claw-claw-bite, and Vecna shakes it off. Percival manages to call for a death saving throw, and Grindelwald magnanimously allows it. 

And then it’s Credence’s turn. Grindelwald goes next and he is practically salivating as he waits for Credence to take his turn.  

Credence very deliberately sets his character sheet on the table. He points to a spot at the very top, where–at the very first session–he’d written in neat writing just under the “class” box: “Source: D&DWiki Homebrew”. 

“I was never playing the game the way you’re ‘supposed’ to play it,” Credence says in a measured voice. “And neither were you. You already burned your Legendary Resistance. I need you to make a DC 25 Constitution saving throw.”

Grindelwald fails.

“I just unleashed every ounce of blood in my body as an attack,” Credence says. “You take 8d10 points of damage, and you have disadvantage on all intelligence, wisdom, attack rolls, and saving throws. No save to shake it off, you’re stuck that way forever. Good luck surviving the next three rounds.”

“Holy shit, Credence,” Tina whispers. 

For a second, Grindelwald just stares. And then he gets up from the table and simply walks away out the front door. There’s a long, long moment of silence, and then Credence asks, “Is it okay if I just play something simple next campaign?”

“Yeah, it is,” Percival says. He sighs. “But who the hell is going to DM?”

“I’ll try it,” Jacob says. He holds up his phone. “I’ve been taking notes for a while!”

“Show us what you’ve got,” Tina says. “It’s GOT to be better than Grindelwald’s campaign.”

Seraphina sighs. “You know, it was actually really good. Just…that last bit…”

“And all the stupid things he did to try to ‘win’,” Queenie says. 

Jacob clears his throat. “I’m thinking this will be a story about wizards and magical creatures in the 1920s. Like Harry Potter, but different,” he says.

“That sounds nice,” Newt says. He peers over Jacob’s shoulder. “Is that opening narration or something?”

“Yeah, it is. A bright, clear New York day,” Jacob reads. “Seagulls swoop overhead. A large passenger ship glides past the Statue of Liberty. Passengers lean over the rails, looking excitedly toward the oncoming land…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for that last paragraph to JK Rowling. That IS a snippet of the Fantastic Beasts screenplay.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Paint Your Wagon Part 1 of 3**

(help.[ here’s the map of the oregon trail](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.legendsofamerica.com%2Fphotos-oldwest%2FOregonTrailMap.jpg&t=MGExNDVhMGRiOGI5NTljN2MyOWE3OTUyNzJiNzFmMDdmYzJmMTA1YSwwRW0ySGN3NA%3D%3D&b=t%3AVJOuiL3IGZF2HPQBSRSgnw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fwanderingnork.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163790616590%2Fpaint-your-wagon-part-1&m=1). have fun. don’t do history kids. notes: by 1848, a wagon train of eleven wagons wouldn’t be too out of place. Bloody Kansas hadn’t technically happened yet but Picquery is right to be worried,[ it’s not like things have gotten any better](http://wanderingnork.tumblr.com/post/163781963840/naacp-warns-black-travelers-to-use-extreme). [the supply list comes from here](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.oregontrailcenter.org%2FHistoricalTrails%2FSupplies.htm&t=MGY4NjI2NWNjZDRjMDg1N2RmZGU2MTJlMTNiMzNkZGI3MDJmZDIxMCwwRW0ySGN3NA%3D%3D&b=t%3AVJOuiL3IGZF2HPQBSRSgnw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fwanderingnork.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163790616590%2Fpaint-your-wagon-part-1&m=1). warning for period-typical slang related to Native people. it wasn’t the Sublette Cutoff in 1848, it was “the cutoff to Green River”. let’s get this show on the road. just vignettes to get this out of my head before i write a 100,000 word epic about ANOTHER FUCKING ROAD TRIP.)

(Oh: and here’s the titular song. [Paint Your Wagon](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D8dDhO4wS-0k&t=M2I2NTVkNzllZWQzNjhkZWI1NDdiYzEwMGJjYzE4MGZhZmI4OTI4MywwRW0ySGN3NA%3D%3D&b=t%3AVJOuiL3IGZF2HPQBSRSgnw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fwanderingnork.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163790616590%2Fpaint-your-wagon-part-1&m=1).)

The wagon train assembles at the edge of Independence, Missouri. It’s an odd collection of people, Percival thinks. But in this year of 1848, what group of pioneers isn’t odd? He looks around at them all. The pious woman and her three adopted children, going to minister to everyone who isn’t one of Brigham Young’s people. The spinster sisters, bound and determined to own land in the Willamette Valley. The baker, intending to start his business far away from bankers and the need for “collateral”. The shy English-immigrant veterinarian, hired on to act as farrier and cattle-driver and chicken-doctor as they travel. The wealthy German, who owns property in Oregon already. The wealthy would-be landowners, who’d hired Percival in the first place to serve their wagon train despite its tiny size. The dark Georgia lady, aloof and rightly so with the way things are in Missouri right now. The thin, pale, city boy who plans to be a farmer. The boisterous man with sly eyes and a booming laugh, who plans to open an inn. The standoffish family, father and son and daughter and the daughter’s young son. And, of course, the wagon master: Percival. 

Eleven prairie schooners, since Percival’s employers have two; and another two ordinary wagons of supplies. Six oxen apiece for each wagon, and two milch cows. A few chickens and a cat, courtesy of the veterinarian. Horses, six of them. Hundreds of pounds of flour, beans, sugar, coffee, salt, pepper, baking soda, and lard. Eggs packed in barrels of cornmeal; bacon packed in barrels of bran. Gallons of vinegar and molasses. Dried fruit, dried beef, and hardtack. And all the dozens of sundries that every pioneer needs, from clothes to tools to guns to lanterns. And luxuries, of course, and the cargo that they’ll all want at the other end. It’s a damned huge amount of cargo for not many people, and they’ll have to haul it two thousand miles from Independence, Missouri, to the Willamette Valley in Oregon. This, Percival is sure, is the very definition of hell. 

But they’re all waiting for him to be the wagon master. That’s what he was hired to be. It’s time. Westward ho.

***

“It’s not wise to linger long in Missouri these days,” Seraphina says, as they sit around the campfire. “I don’t want to go West. But we do what we must.”

“We do,” Mary Lou agrees. Beside her, the youngest daughter blinks owlishly. 

In cultured tones, Gellert says, “As for me, I have dreams for Oregon.”

“Great dreams, I’m sure,” Abernathy says. 

Percival, sitting back by the wagon, doesn’t comment. Dreams don’t last long out here in the West. 

Queenie, dishing up the supper to all and sundry, comes over to give Percival a plate. “Here you go, honey,” she murmurs. She’s pretty, even tousled from the day, pink sunbonnet hanging by its strings down her back. 

“This is good, Queenie,” Langdon calls out. 

“Cornbread sound good for breakfast?” Jacob asks, to murmured assent.

This could be worse. They could all hate each other. Percival might be optimistic, if he were so inclined.

***

Credence offers to drive Percival’s wagon. “So you can ride, sir,” he says, softly earnest. 

“Thanks,” Percival says. He glances at the Barebone wagon, where Mary Lou glowers. “Your ma all right with this?”

“It’s charity,” Credence says, instead of a real answer. Unconsciously, he rubs his hands. 

Percival has heard some of what goes on over there, after dark. He lets Credence drive the wagon.

***

There are coyotes, two days out of Fort Leavenworth. A whole pack. That’s when Tina shows her mettle. It’s night, before supper’s even been started, and half the men are still pulling out their guns. Tina’s already on her feet, eyes blazing and dark hair coming loose, holding a rifle better than a soldier and firing at the howling creatures. 

In only moments, when Percival and Henry Junior join her, the coyotes are beaten back. Langdon and Abernathy look shamefaced; Percival just offers his hand to Tina. “You’re good,” he says. 

She grins and shakes his hand. “I know.”

***

Gnarlak plays the fiddle; they have a dance at the Kansas border. Merope Gaunt dances with Abernathy while Chastity holds her little son Tom and her father and brother sit scowling on the seat of the wagon. Tina dances with Newt and Jacob dances with Queenie; Gellert takes Seraphina for a spin. Mary Lou sits in her wagon and prays; no one pays her any mind at all. The Henry Shaws sit by and watch: Langdon gives young Modesty a sort of dance, laughing at her tripping antics.

“Not a dancer?” Percival asks, coming to stand by Credence out of the circle. 

“No,” Credence murmurs. He looks sideways at Percival. “Are you, Mr. Graves?”

Percival shakes his head. “Not for love or money,” he says. 

They stand side by side in comfortable silence, watching.

***

Nebraska is a pretty state. Seraphina is glad to be out of Kansas, that much is clear; the Shaws have more than a few backward glances. 

“I’d rather get to Oregon,” Tina says, looking back. “Ain’t much to see back East except buildings and roads.”

“I like it better out here,” Jacob says. He looks forward, past Percival to the horizon. “There’s a future out here.”

***

Fort Kearny is a welcome sight. They stay three days, resting and getting supplies and learning about the trail ahead. 

Gellert disappears for a few hours; no one can seem to find him. He comes back with a shrug and a secret smile. Percival doesn’t know what to do about that, or if he should do anything at all.

***

They hunt regularly now, with supplies on rations. Percival takes Henry Junior, Gellert, and Newt with him: the first two are crack shots and Newt’s the best damn tracker who isn’t an Indian that Percival has ever worked with. 

He teaches Credence how to shoot, when he finds out that the young man doesn’t know the barrel of a gun from a stock. Every man on the trail has to know how to shoot and a Bible isn’t an exception. And then Percival is surprised to find that Queenie wants to learn, too, and so does Jacob. He’s glad to have extra guns out here. 

***

“Chimney Rock is amazing!” Chastity says, staring up at the huge monument. She’s tanned all over, having given up her sunbonnet long since. Her ma is mad as a hornet about it, but doesn’t do anything when the wagon train is always full of people. 

“Best sight on the trail,” Percival says. 

Newt, hands in his pockets, shrugs and looks around at the rest of the landscape. “I could do with seeing some of the wildlife.”

Of course he could. 

***

The Gaunt patriarch is bitten by a rattlesnake a day from Scott’s Bluff. By the time they arrive, he can’t be saved. It’s their first death on the trail, and the moment that things begin to break down.

***

Gellert disappears again at Fort Laramie; Percival is too busy trying to talk Abernathy and the Gaunt siblings out of leaving the party to say anything.

“We need you,” he says. 

“We’ll be happier here,” Abernathy says firmly, holding Merope’s skinny hand. Her brother looks mutinous, but says not a word. 

They’re down to nine wagons, and have lost Abernathy’s horse. 

***

It’s July 6 when they reach Independence Rock. They’re making good time and it makes Percival nervous: their good luck can’t last forever. But they stop anyway to celebrate a late Independence Day. 

Only a few of them decide to actually climb the rock. Percival goes along, if only because he’s done this before and remembers how to get up. Tina, Newt, Queenie, Jacob, all three of the Barebone children, and Seraphina make the climb. At the top, they stand and look for a while. 

“This is why I came West,” Seraphina says suddenly. “A woman like me don’t have much place in the East anymore. This is freedom.”

They carve their names into the rock, a remembrance that they were here, that they came West. Percival feels a sense of foreboding, looking at the list, as if those whose names aren’t here won’t be with them when they reach Oregon.

***

They take the cutoff to Green River. It’s a desert crossing, fast and hard; they can’t stop because there’s no firewood or water along the way. Percival pushes mercilessly: even when an axle shatters on the second of the Shaws’ wagons, he refuses to stop. They leave the schooner on the trail, pushing forward. 

***

At the Green River, Mary Lou throws a fit. “We will not take the Mormon ferry!”

“We can and we will,” Percival says, losing his temper. “I trust those people better than anyone else running a ferry here!”

“They’re Godless heathens!”

“I don’t think you’ve got room to talk,” Queenie says sharply. “You don’t do a lot of reading of your Bible, do you? Else you wouldn’t hit your kids so hard!”

Mary Lou’s eyes are wide and round, but she backs down.

***

The next morning, the moment he opens his eyes, Percival knows there’s something wrong. There eight wagons last night and now there are seven, and he doesn’t see the Barebone kids. 

“Wake up!” he shouts, already scrambling saddle-less onto his horse. “She’s trying to ford the river alone!”

They have five horse. Percival, Tina, Newt, Gellert, and Langdon ride for the banks of the river, where Mary Lou is driving her oxen into the water, the wagon creaking along behind. Percival sees the children in the back, Modesty crying and Chastity clutching her; Credence is on the front of the wagon with his ma, holding the oxen steady. 

Percival swings off his horse and runs for the back of the wagon. He’s up to his waist by the time he can scramble up into the back; there’s already water seeping in the cracks. Damn woman didn’t bother to caulk her wagon. 

He helps Modesty and Chastity out of the back, to Tina and Gellert, who’ve urged their horses into the water. And then he turns to fight his way through the wagon’s clutter, trying to reach Credence in the front. 

But everything goes wrong. They’re too far out and the wagon wheel hits a rock and it rocks and the current takes it. Percival feels the tilt before it happens, and he panics for one terrible second because he’s inside the wagon, trapped, and he stumbles forward, trying to get out. And the the wagon flips. 

He’s tangled in something, leg caught in the canvas, and the wagon is being hauled downstream. He sees Mary Lou, tangled in the reins; he and the damn woman are going to drown together. 

And then someone grabs hold of him and pulls, and Percival kicks free of whatever’s holding him, and watches as Mary Lou and her wagon disappear down the river, under the water. 

***

It’s Credence who saved him.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Paint Your Wagon, Part 2 of 3**

(notes: [the Whitman Mission is case study on making smart choices when you proselytize](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.pbs.org%2Fweta%2Fthewest%2Fpeople%2Fs_z%2Fwhitman.htm&t=N2UwZGU0ZGFlNGNkNDZkNTRlOGQ2MzNjYTk1YWFhZDA4Zjg2NTg5MSx3M1YwTFVJYQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AVJOuiL3IGZF2HPQBSRSgnw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fwanderingnork.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163844005280%2Fpaint-your-wagon-part-2&m=1). warning for several deaths toward the end–not the Suitcase Family though.)

The bedraggled, shaken group crosses the Green River at the Mormon ferry. It’s efficient and the Mormons are friendly and don’t ask too many questions. Percival can’t let the party stop, not even to grieve: if they waste too much time, they’ll all end up dead. 

They’ve missed their chance to stop at Fort Bridger, and it’s seven days to Soda Springs. Percival consults the party and advises them that this is a wise place to call a halt, if they must. They put it to a vote. Everyone but Percival and young Modesty votes; nine to three, they decide to stop at the Springs. 

***

The Barebone children ride in Percival’s wagon, now. Credence keeps driving it, while Chastity and Modesty stay in the back. Jacob takes over the job of looking after them–“not that their mother ever did,” he says darkly–and Queenie takes the bolts of cloth she was saving to make dresses in Oregon to replace all of the lost clothes from the disaster. The Shaws give Credence their extra rifle and plenty of ammunition, while Tina promises to share tools when they arrive in Oregon. Newt makes Modesty a new rag doll, out of scraps and a surgical needle and thread, which she carries everywhere. Seraphina takes Chastity under her wing, giving her literature that Mary Lou never let her read. 

And virtually overnight, the three blossom under the attention. Chastity’s nose is never out of one of Seraphina’s books, and she coaxes Gnarlak into teaching her to fiddle. Modesty courageously starts learning to drive a wagon, and Jacob teaches her to cook. Percival is astounded: perhaps it does take a village to raise a child.

Well–two children, since Credence is not a child. He’s nearly twenty-three, more confident now that he doesn’t have his ma hovering over his shoulders. He sleeps beside Percival under the wagon at night while the girls sleep in the wagon above, and often Percival wakes up to find Credence’s back pressed against his. 

He’s very used to being alone, and this idea of having friends is strange and almost uncomfortable. But Percival likes Credence, so he simply carries on.

***

Soda Springs is a welcome respite. Queenie mixes the strange-tasting water with sugar and hoarded citrus syrup; it’s not really lemonade, but it suits. They stay two days there, enjoying a brief time of leisure.

***

“There were lights last night over the ridge,” Jacob says, pulling Percival aside one morning as the train prepares to move out. “Fires.”

Percival looks up instinctively, but of course there’s nothing. Still, he’s nervous now. The Whitman Massacre was only last year and it still looms large in every good pioneer’s memory. “Indians?”

“I don’t know,” Jacob says. He looks disturbed.

“We’ll keep a lookout,” Percival says. 

***

Fort Hall brings an unwelcome event: Gnarlak departs the train. “I’ll take up fur trapping, play my fiddle for the beavers,” he says jovially. More seriously, he adds, “But I do plan to make my way to California. Next wagon train comes through, I’m headed south.”

“Oh, please don’t go!” Chastity bursts out, white-faced. “It’s too dangerous on the trail without more men!”

“People’ve made it with less,” Tina says, stoic as ever. “We’ll make it, too.”

Helping Gnarlak remove his cargo from the train, though, Percival starts to wonder if they really will.

***

The Hudson’s Bay Company agents at Fort Hall do their best to persuade the train to take the California Trail instead. They describe hellish river crossings, empty badlands, thieves and bandits, and worse.

“We are not going to California,” Newt says sharply, “and that’s the end of it.”

***

Eleven days out of Fort Hall, everything goes to hell.

It’s midday, and they’re not paying enough attention. Percival rides beside the wagon, making casual conversation with Credence, who’s driving the wagon while his sister sits beside him. The young man keeps absently reaching over to tug Modesty’s sunbonnet forward, preventing her nose from burning. Langdon and Henry Junior ride side by side, spinning far-fetched tales to pass the time. Their father has the wagon; on the box of his wagon, Jacob whistles a tune. Queenie’s driving the Goldstein wagon; Newt’s driving his with Pickett the cat on his lap; Tina has a horse and rides along beside Chastity, coaching her on how to ride. Gellert, at the back of the train, is contemplative as he drives. It’s as close to an idyll as they’ve ever had.

And then a gunshot roars out. Chastity screams, the oxen low and balk, the horses go half mad. Percival turns and sees–ten men, riding fast, rifles at the ready. “Down!” he roars, fumbling out his own rifle and taking aim. He was a soldier once and his training holds true: even from the saddle with a panicked horse under him, he can shoot well enough to hit one of the riders.

Tina swings around, pulling on her horse’s reins and taking aim with her own rifle. She gets off a shot, but the riders are already close in, all nine of them, and in the panic she misses. The bandits are among them then. They order the wagon drivers down onto the ground and hold rifles on them, preventing Percival or Tina from doing anything. Gellert helps Modesty down from the wagon, holding her by the hand. Credence slides off the box, but stays close to the wagon, watching the scene.

“You want our horses?” Percival asks the apparent leader, a man in a particularly red bandanna, in a level voice. That happens often enough–they can survive this, if they’re smart and quick about it.

“Naw,” the leader says with a laconic shrug. “I dunno. Ask our boss.”

“Your boss?” Tina asks sharply.

The leader nods in the general direction of Gellert, of all people. “Yeah.”

Percival’s heart nearly stops. “…what?”

Gellert sighs. “The game is up, then,” he says. Calmly, still holding Modesty’s hand, the German steps away from the rest of the group. “I’m afraid that Mr. Smith and his men are in my employ.”

“What the hell do you mean?” Henry Shaw Senior demands.

“I mean, Mr. Shaw, that unfortunately you have something that belongs to me,” Gellert says. “Why don’t you go into that safe in the back of your wagon and bring out the deed?”

“What deed?” Jacob asks.

“The deed to a tract of land in Oregon,” Gellert says. “Fertile, beautiful, with a gold mine tucked away right in the middle. The reason the Shaws hired Mr. Graves to lead this wagon train.”

Percival glares at the Shaws. “Is that true?”

“It is,” Henry Shaw Senior says coldly. “But I wouldn’t hand that deed over to you for anything.”

“Again, unfortunate,” Gellert says. Still holding Modesty’s hand, he withdraws a pistol from inside his jacket. There’s a single shot, and the Shaw patriarch slumps over on the wagon seat, dead.

“Father!” Langdon cries.

Gellert ignores him. “Now. Someone retrieve that safe.”

“No!” Henry Junior says.

“Do what he says!” Percival shouts.

Henry Junior points at him with a shaking finger. “You shut up! You’re working with him, aren’t you? I won’t get that safe! I won’t!”

“Mr. Graves is not one of my men,” Gellert says. “And I admire your resolve.”

The second shot is louder than the first, if possible. Henry’s horse spooks, bucking him off; if he wasn’t dead before he hit the ground, he is when the horse’s hoof catches him in the head.

Chastity is sobbing now, clutching at Seraphina, who’s watching Gellert and Modesty with narrow eyes. Percival knows there’s a gun in her pocket, but if she makes the wrong move, something else could go horribly wrong. Credence, he notices, has disappeared. On the edge of things, the young man must have taken the chance to run. Good. Maybe he’ll be all right, at least.

Gellert turns to Langdon. “Now,” he says. “I won’t shoot you, because you’re the only person left with the combination to that safe. But, Mr. Shaw, if you choose not to open that safe, I’ll have no choice but to…incentivize you.” He levels the pistol at Queenie.

Langdon scrambles ungracefully off his horse. “All right! All right!” he says, and climbs into the wagon. A moment later, he emerges with a small safe, which he drops on the ground at Gellert’s feet.

“Good,” the German says. He lowers the gun, and Jacob pushes Queenie behind him. “Now. Open it.”

Slowly, Langdon does as Gellert demands. There’s money inside, and a few other valuables, but the only important thing is a piece of paper in an envelope that Langdon hands to the German. “There. That’s the deed. Now let Modesty go.”

“Again, this is unfortunate business,” Gellert says regretfully, tucking the paper into his pocket. “You see, I can’t leave any of you to ruin things once I get to Oregon.”

“What are you going to do to us?” Newt asks. His cat is held close to his chest, and for all the world he looks afraid–but Percival has seen what he can do with that Bowie knife on his hip.

Gellert glances at one of the bandits. “Burn the wagons,” he says dismissively.

It’s not an order, but the man nods. He strikes a match, lights a lantern hanging from his saddle–and throws it into the Goldstein wagon. The fire spreads fast: the wagons are dry and there’s flour in there, easily burned. It’s a conflagration in seconds.

“Wait!” Jacob yells. “You can’t just kill us all!”

“I do like all of you,” Gellert says, “but I’m sorry to say that the business I’m in is rather more important than just a few lives. Mr. Smith, please make this quick and clean.” And he aims his pistol, to Percival’s horror, right at little Modesty. She screams and tries to pull away, but then–

A rifle roars and Gellert jerks, staggers, and falls, the pistol falling from his hands. Modesty wrenches herself away from him and runs right into Jacob’s arms. Credence is standing on the box of Newt’s wagon, Newt’s rifle in his hands, still smoking.

The bandits are yelling, but Percival doesn’t wait: he raises his rifle and fires from horseback. On the ground, Seraphina has her own pistol in her hand. Chastity and Modesty take cover under a wagon, screaming. Tina’s also got her rifle up, and Newt has climbed into the saddle of Henry’s horse and is urging it into the midst of the bandits, trying to knock them off their mounts. One of the bandits climbs off his horse and Jacob immediately punches him, hard enough to knock him right out. Somehow, some of the oxen are cut loose, and stampede away from the train, bellowing as they go. It’s complete chaos. At least one shot narrowly misses Percival, leaving a bleeding cut on one shoulder. For a second, he thinks that they aren’t going to get out of this.

But the bandits are in full flight: they’re not courageous men, not by a long shot. And then they’re gone. The silence, without the screams and gunshots, is truly horrifying.

Credence drops the rifle and hits the ground, pulling Chastity and Modesty out of hiding and into a tight, frightened hug. Percival swings off his horse and has barely hit the ground before Newt’s got him by the arm, already trying to bandage him up. Queenie and Tina are weeping in each others’ arms, while Jacob comforts a sobbing Langdon.

Seraphina’s got a bloody scrape on her cheek, where she must have stumbled against a wagon. Percival takes out his handkerchief and gently dabs at the scrape, getting off the worst of the blood and dirt. She takes the handkerchief and holds it to her face. Her eyes are bright with what might be tears, and Percival pulls her into a hug. They hold each other tightly for a long moment.

“What do we do?” she finally asks, stepping back and looking around at the disaster. Four prairie schooners, oxen missing, three bodies, a wagon on fire–

“We keep moving,” Percival says, pulling himself together. “We have to keep moving.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Paint Your Wagon, Part 3 of 3**

([Idaho Public Television presents: Fort Boise](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fidahoptv.org%2Foutdoors%2Fshows%2Fpathwaysofpioneers%2Foldfortboise.cfm&t=N2Q1OWY0MTFkYTVmM2VkODQ1NWIyOWJhM2ViZjBjMjFhZDkyYzNlNixwM2s5M0hJRw%3D%3D&b=t%3AVJOuiL3IGZF2HPQBSRSgnw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fwanderingnork.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163970701695%2Fpaint-your-wagon-part-3&m=1). [here’s StackExchange on “jury-rigged” vs. “jerry-rigged”](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fenglish.stackexchange.com%2Fquestions%2F132868%2Fjury-rigged-or-jerry-rigged%2F132919&t=OTkwYTZhNTU1NTEzMTgyNDlkZTFkNWY5NGRhNjNjZDk5MzEzOWQ1ZixwM2s5M0hJRw%3D%3D&b=t%3AVJOuiL3IGZF2HPQBSRSgnw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fwanderingnork.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163970701695%2Fpaint-your-wagon-part-3&m=1). Percival’s line “if the Blues have snow, then the Cascades surely do too” is a direct quote/paraphrase of a line from the guide Tall Joe in “[Across the Wide and Lonesome Prairie](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.goodreads.com%2Fbook%2Fshow%2F875643.Across_The_Wide_And_Lonesome_Prairie&t=ZTJlNTE0Y2M2YzY5OTE5NTE0MjJlMzZhYWJiZjU2OTg5N2FhODg3MCxwM2s5M0hJRw%3D%3D&b=t%3AVJOuiL3IGZF2HPQBSRSgnw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fwanderingnork.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163970701695%2Fpaint-your-wagon-part-3&m=1)”, a Dear America book. I about had a heart attack over the realization that the [Graves family was involved with the Donner Party](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.donnerpartydiary.com%2Fsurvivor.htm&t=MjM1YzE5NWY2MjNjYmExODJiYzgxOWQ2ZDc3YWJmMzE2MjBjNTM5MyxwM2s5M0hJRw%3D%3D&b=t%3AVJOuiL3IGZF2HPQBSRSgnw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fwanderingnork.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163970701695%2Fpaint-your-wagon-part-3&m=1). [The Barlow Road vs. the Columbia River rafting is here](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.octa-trails.org%2Farticles%2Ffinal-leg-of-the-oregon-trail&t=Y2Q2NjY0MTJjMDViY2MwZTM1YmViNjAyNzU4ZTZiYmFjOTJjY2E0NixwM2s5M0hJRw%3D%3D&b=t%3AVJOuiL3IGZF2HPQBSRSgnw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fwanderingnork.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163970701695%2Fpaint-your-wagon-part-3&m=1); my family and I have debated this round and round and round and I finally decided that I’ll go with the majority decision. Only one in four pioneers decided to hike after the toll road was built: the rest still rafted. 

Percival forces a detour toward Fort Boise. It’s out of their way, and loses them all the ground they’d gained taking the cutoff, but they need time. And besides, he’s been there before; the fort will afford them some protection and give them a chance to resupply if they need. Flour will be expensive–upwards of twenty dollars a cut if it’s a cent–but if they want to survive to Oregon, it’s what they’ll have to do. 

They’re at Fort Boise three days before Percival calls a meeting. Everyone must make a decision: to go on to Oregon as they are, or to wait until another wagon train passes through, or to turn back and struggle their way back East. “I won’t blame a damn one of you if you decide to stay here,” he says, looking around. Seraphina’s cheek is still scraped, and Tina’s hobbling where she’d sprained an ankle nearly falling off the horse. Percival’s arm is still bandaged, and in the chaos of the fighting Jacob had been hit across the face by the butt of a rifle and is still swollen. 

“To hell with that!” Tina snaps. “I’m going on to Oregon, even if you won’t go!”

“I won’t leave her behind,” Queenie says firmly. 

“Yeah, I ain’t giving up now,” Jacob says. 

Newt nods. “We can’t just quit.”

“I made myself a promise that I wouldn’t stop until I reached the coast,” Seraphina says. 

Credence, hands on his sisters’ shoulders, gives Percival a long look. “We’ve talked,” he says. “We’re going.”

“I’ll be staying,” Langdon says softly. “I’ll go on with the next wagon train, perhaps.”

Percival shakes his head. Four prairie schooners, each with only three or four oxen now with those that have died or been lost along the way; no extra wagons of supplies now. One milch cow, nearly skin and bones. All the chickens, carried in Newt’s wagon, and Pickett the cat. Four horses. A few hundred pounds of flour–on the order of 200 pounds per person, a third of what they should be carrying. Foodstuffs that have to be rationed nearly to the point of starvation if they’re going to make it over the Blue Mountains and then that last push to the Willamette Valley. Not a spare bolt of fabric; shoes wearing thin at the soles; tools broken and jury-rigged to work. Ammunition enough, if they never miss a shot.

And, carrying this cargo, a group of weathered, stubborn, determined pioneers who Percival would trust with his life a dozen times over. 

“It’ll be a hell of a ride,” he says. “But I’m willing to guide you, if you’ll try it.”

“Westward ho!” Modesty cries. 

And even if Percival doesn’t share the little girl’s enthusiasm, he might just be able to believe that they’ll make it.

***

This is the hardest part of the drive. They’ve got to make it across the Blue Mountains before the worst of the snows set in, and then they have still more than 200 hellish miles to go. At least their passage over the Blues will be easier than the trips made by pioneers just three years ago, since emigrants that came before already cut the timber to make way for the wagons, but autumn has set in. 

Credence drives one wagon. Newt is still driving and so is Jacob, while Chastity now ably manages driving Seraphina’s wagon. Tina, Percival, and Seraphina ride; Queenie walks along with Modesty. 

“If the Blues have snow, then the Cascades surely do too,” Percival says. 

“Long as we don’t end up like the Donners, we’ll be fine,” Seraphina says dryly. 

Queenie, walking along beside the wagon Credence drives, looks up at Percival. “Wasn’t there a Graves family in the Donner Party?”

“If there was, I’m no relation,” Percival says. 

***

It’s the middle of October when they reach Fort Walla Walla, and by then they’re down to three wagons, having lost one to a cold swamp. They’ve loaded some of the oxen with what supplies they can carry, and lately Newt spends most of his time leading them on foot. 

But at the Dalles, they’ve got a nasty choice to make. “This won’t be easy, no matter which way we go,” Percival warns. “We can either take the Barlow Toll Road through the Cascades and around Mount Hood, which will guarantee getting the wagons over the mountains, or we can raft the Columbia and go a little shorter and faster. The Barlow’s got a reputation for taking tolls from dead men, but the Columbia’s flipped more rafts than I care to count. I won’t make this choice for you.”

There’s some bickering, arguing, really, before Jacob steps in. “We’ll raft,” he says. “Can’t afford to worry about wagons now. We’ll get what we can down the river, and that’s the end of it.”

***

They abandon the third wagon in favor of having only two wagons, and sell all the horses. Anything that doesn’t fit is sold or abandoned, and they’re not alone. At least two other groups–far larger than theirs–arrive while they’re putting together the expedition. They get visible looks of pity from the other parties, but receive no more help than a courteous handshake and an offer of some small surplus of supplies. 

Two rafts have to be built, and they’re lucky enough to get help from some people to cut down the trees and get the rafts assembled. Newt, Percival, and Credence drive the oxen along the side of the river, while the others manage the rafts on the water. 

It’s early morning when they set off from Crates Point into a calm part of the Columbia River. The men help push off, and leave the management of the rafts to the capable hands of Tina and Seraphina. Percival watches from the bank as they direct themselves out into the waters of the river, and prays. 

***

Every night they beach the rafts on the shore and sleep there. One cold night, Percival is on watch when he hears the creak of a step on the box of a wagon. He looks up to see Tina climbing down, straightening her dress, a pretty brooch she’s been carrying in her pocket all this way worn glittering on the collar of her dress.

“What?” she says softly, walking over to Newt’s wagon with a determined step. “It might just be now or never.”

“Make an honest man of him, when you get to Oregon,” Percival says with a small, wry smile.

“I plan on it,” Tina murmurs, looking up into Newt’s wagon. She climbs up, and a moment later Percival hears quiet movement and whispers. He turns his back, and gives them the small privacy he can.

Somehow, Percival isn’t terribly surprised when the same thing happens with Jacob and Queenie the next night.

***

At Hood River, they must drive the cattle across to the north bank of the Columbia; at Sandy River, they’ve got to drive them back to the south. Seven oxen and one cow–eight livestock in total. The Hood River crossing isn’t a bad one, all told; but they have to send the rafts on ahead to wait for them at the Sandy River. 

Newt, Percival, and Credence are left alone then, with the livestock. At night, while they can’t see enough to keep moving, they don’t even bother with a fire. Newt sleeps wrapped up from ears to toes in a blanket, and it gives Percival and Credence a chance to talk. And they do: Credence tells Percival about his childhood, about how they’d decided to go West; Percival tells Credence about his years as a soldier, about the time on the trail.

“Thank you for all you’ve done,” Credence says softly, the night before they arrive at the Sandy. 

“It wasn’t a trouble,” Percival says. 

Credence sidles closer, so their shoulders are pressed together. “You could have got killed out here.”

“So could any of us.”

“Still. Thank you,” Credence says. A moment later, Percival is hard-pressed not to startle as Credence’s hand comes to rest atop his. He’s not surprised, not exactly–on the trail so far, there’s been very little in the way of time for such affections, but Percival isn’t blind to looks, and he certainly knows he’s been looking back.

They spend the rest of the evening, and all those to come, in this same fashion.

***

At Sandy River, they elect to make the overland hike to Oregon City, rather than continuing to raft toward Fort Vancouver. Modesty is glad to leave the river behind: “It reminds me too much of Ma,” she says softly. 

“It does,” Chastity says. Her eyes are hard, when she looks at the river.

Seraphina folds her arms. “Either way. We’re on our way to Oregon City.”

***

They drag themselves into Oregon City after months on the trail, half the size of the party they’d set out with, missing wagons and oxen and supplies. There’s no fanfare, but Queenie cries on Jacob’s shoulder and the Barebones cling to each other, praying. 

Tina and Newt take the land deed from the Shaws immediately to the seat of the American Provisional Government while the others make their camp outside the city limits. They come back with good news:

“The land is ours!” Tina says, running up to Queenie and throwing her arms around her sister. And then she turns to the rest and says, “You’ll all have to stay a while, of course, over the winter at least!”

“Hell, I will!” Jacob says. “Got to build you girls a cabin.”

“Maybe two cabins,” Queenie says with a small smile. 

Seraphina nods. “I’m thinking of running for mayor,” she says, “but not for a while yet. I’ll stay.”

“We’ll all stay,” Credence says, speaking for his sisters.

“I might as well weather the winter,” Percival says. He will, too. He’s not quite ready to say goodbye yet.

***

They build cabins, two of them; eventually they’ll try for a better house, but for now, these will last the winter. They’re cramped in, but there’s supplies in easy distance of Oregon City. Percival finds himself cutting wood, caring for oxen, and eating food cooked on a proper stove rather than over a campfire. In the crowded cabins, he still sleeps beside Credence every night; it’s comfortable and easy and right. 

But of course winter is drawing to a close, and Percival is beginning to think of traveling again. “I might head back east,” he says one evening. “Guide other wagon trains, chart trails, that sort of thing.”

“You’d never be happy in one place,” Newt says. 

Seraphina shrugs. “I think you’re mad,” she says. “But best of luck.”

Credence corners him, once everyone’s gone off to sleep. “Will you take me with you?” he says, getting straight to the point.

“Why would you want to?” Percival asks, astounded. 

“There’ll be nothing for me here,” Credence says. “Chastity wants to be a schoolteacher and Modesty’s really Jacob and Queenie’s girl now. And…besides, you’re…you.”

Percival looks the young man up and down. “I wouldn’t mind the company,” he says, and Credence smiles at him and embraces him tightly.

***

They set off in the spring together, just as planned. Their friends plead with them to be safe, and to come back eventually; Credence promises that they will. Of course Percival is more reserved: but, looking at all of them, at these people who’ve accomplished a miracle, he can possibly believe that they will come back, after all.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for writingramblr...here's morning cuddles.

It’s late in the morning when Percival finally wakes up. He’s confused, for a moment, because there’s a weight across his waist and something pressed against his back–but then he remembers, and smiles. It’s Credence, of course it is. They’d fallen asleep quite differently, Credence with his head on Percival’s chest, but apparently things had changed during the night.

Percival is content to simply lie there, for once in his life. He’ll make his excuses today when he gets in. If there were a pressing crisis, someone would already have broken down his door to wake him. For now, the only pressing thing is the young man with him.

He can feel the steady rise and fall of Credence’s chest where his sternum meets Percival’s spine. They’re neither one wearing a shirt–they’d barely made concession for pants, last night, and only because Credence had turned red as a beet and barely been able to speak when all was said and done. This is far more comfortable than Percival would have expected, though it really is nice: Credence is perhaps two inches taller, when he stands up straight, and Percival has never really had the experience of being held before.

The sun slides across the floor, the shadows of the curtains moving minutely, and Percival appreciates feeling like time has slowed down for them. It’s rare, in his life, to feel content. He’ll save this memory later, he thinks, put it in a vial so it can be lived again in a Pensieve. Percival doesn’t do that often–there’s not much in his life that he wants to remember–but for this, he’ll make an exception.

Finally, Credence moves. He lets go of Percival and rolls over onto his back with a small groan. Percival flips onto his other side so he can see Credence at last, watch him rub the sleep from his eyes and blink at the ceiling for a moment. He turns and looks at Percival with a small, shy smile. “Good morning,” he whispers.

“Good morning,” Percival says. He smiles back, hardly able to believe the vision before him. There’s a line on Credence’s cheek from the pillow and his hair, that awful bowl-cut, is sticking up in strange places. He’s beautiful. “Sleep well?”

“Better than in years,” Credence says quietly. The usual haunted look is back, and Percival can’t have that.

He closes the gap between them and kisses Credence, gently. “Good,” he says. “That was what I hoped.”

“I still can’t believe I’m here,” Credence says, fingertips shyly tracing over Percival’s arm.

Percival rests his hand over the curve of Credence’s ribs, far too prominent for a young man his age, and aches for the fact that he can’t protect Credence forever. “The feeling’s mutual,” he says.

Credence shakes his head with a small, breathless laugh. “Can’t believe that either.”

Almost afraid that he’ll scare Credence away, but determined to show Credence that he is not only appreciated but adored, Percival pulls him in close again. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, and kisses the top of Credence’s head.

With a small, happy sigh, Credence snuggles in closer. He doesn’t say a word, but his arm sneaks back over Percival’s waist, and his other curls against Percival’s chest. Percival holds Credence tight, committing him to memory, etching all of this into his bones.

“I don’t ever want to leave,” Credence says, words nearly lost where he speaks against Percival’s collarbone.

“I don’t want you to go,” Percival says. He thinks–and then again–and then finally gives the hell up. “You don’t have to go.”

Credence falls very still in his arms. “…but I have to. Your laws…”

Who gives a damn about the law? About anything? “You don’t. There are places in the world we can go, where the law won’t keep you out.”

“There…there are?”

“Yes.” He’d been too blind to see it, until now, too blind to understand that there are things more important than a job and a title. Percival can’t remember the last time he was this blindingly, incredibly happy. The last time he felt…loved.

For a long moment, Credence is silent. And then he says, clinging to Percival just a little more tightly, “Anywhere. I’ll go anywhere with you.”

Percival can’t speak for a moment. And then he decides that words are unnecessary. He just holds on more tightly, warm and safe and certain, at last, of the happy ending awaiting them.

***

(Author’s Note: Fuck Grindelwald, forget MACUSA, they moved to Switzerland and lived in the mountains by a lake, HAPPILY EVER AFTER.)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in APRIL and posted because of Pangaea and (AS IF YOU ALL COULDN'T GUESS, THE NUMBER-ONE MEMBER OF THE ENABLER TROUPE) Crimson_Voltaire and their chatter about "Persephone Graves".
> 
> Genderswap.

She drags herself out of the dark, out of her tomb, out of the underworld. The ground where flowers once grew around her feet is dead and barren and withered as the tongue in her mouth. The sun scorches her but she does not back down, because this is her place and she will not be denied. She survived. She lived. There are pomegranate seeds that break between her teeth but she is alive, she is alive, she is alive and Hecate will have her before she gives in.

She walks into the temple of MACUSA. They stop to stare because she looks like a skeleton, perhaps she is a skeleton (the heart inside her broken ribs does not seem to beat anymore) but she does not care because beating or not it is alive. Her wand trembles but she holds it like a scepter because what else can she do? She has nothing more than this.

“You left me to die,” she snarls, glaring at the assembled throng, all their godlike powers not enough to keep her alive.

Seraphina, golden in majesty, standing so high that she might as well be riding in Apollo’s chariot, does not flinch. “Welcome home,” she says, instead of an apology, as if she expects obeisance. “If you are who you say you are, then we are glad to see you again. Are you who you seem to be?”

But no: she found her power, there in the dark, the chthonic depths where real magic lurks. So she bares her teeth in a snarl and says, “I’m real, damn you, I’m here. I’m Persephone Graves.”

***

They whisper about her as she passes. Persephone was never a kind woman, never a soft woman, and now, now the rumors of the curses she casts are true. She flings Unforgiveable Curses without a thought, without a pause. There is still pomegranate juice in her mouth and in the right light it looks like blood. She belongs to him, they whisper, she is his in body and soul—and they could not be more wrong. He does not own her, that dark lord of the dead, and she would rather die than return to him when the winter’s chill again touches the streets of New York.

Persephone wraps herself in the whispers of Grindelwald’s power. She uses it to build her own mysteries, her own cult, witches who hear in her words the promise of greater things than they were told they could ever be. She does not preach, because that is Seraphina’s style, not hers. They are each great, in their own way, and ever has she been Seraphina’s shadow. No, Persephone waits. She builds herself up on a foundation of her nightmares and stands in silence by the throne.

“I’m worried about you, Perse,” Seraphina says.

Persephone smiles and it feels like a scream. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she says.

***

The whispers become reverent, like hymns, like praises, like worship. Persephone does not encourage them, but they spring up anyway. The woman who lived, they whisper, the woman who conquered death. Persephone knows the truth: she did not conquer death. She became it.

There are stories of another woman, a pale wraith, wine-dark power boiling beneath her skin, her voice an echo of the scream of Tisiphone. She is dead, and Persephone grieves for her though she does not know why. It is the only story that can rouse her to pity, to tears, and it stuns her Aurors when she weeps openly for the story of this woman, this “Credence”.

***

It is autumn and Persephone shudders with the cold, the dark hand of Grindelwald reaching out to her, beckoning, commanding. She walks the subway tunnels restlessly, not bothering with a light. The map of these places is etched into her veins. This is her domain.

Deep within the tunnels, she finds her Eurydice. The wraith-woman crouches on the tracks, shrouded in her own shadows and mysteries, and when she sees Persephone she clings to her and begs for salvation, for light. Credence—a worthy name for a hierophant. And Persephone grants the woman justice, promises to bear her into the light at last, an Orpheus to replace the man who’d gone without looking back.

And so in their dark Eleusis Persephone initiates Credence into her mysteries.

***

They emerge from the Underworld together and the world falls to its knees before them. It is not difficult, to depose a god whose power lies only in whispered words. Persephone and Credence throw Grindelwald’s shattered body to the floor at the feet of Seraphina’s golden throne. They are accorded a place among the gods, and they take it together, joined by a compact of blood and chthonic power.

No one dares to speak Persephone’s name aloud, not when she has become everything but a true god herselve. Only Seraphina dares to call her “Perse” now, and it is well. Seraphina holds one half of Persephone’s dead heart and Credence holds the other, and between them Persephone walks the line of the world of the living and the world of the dead.

And where she walks, flowers grow again around her feet.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the Great Polycule Fic...an additional short story will be posted later, but not in here because the rating is hard T and this thing is _not that_.

It started as an accident, really; they didn’t plan on any of it happening. The first of it came when Percival quite innocuously asked Newt if he’d like to keep the suitcase at Percival’s very large house, rather than in the Goldsteins’ tiny apartment. Newt would, and was grateful for the space, but with Newt came the rest: Jacob still had to come by, of course, to help feed the creatures, and Queenie came along for that, and if Tina pretended that she came along to make sure Queenie didn’t get eaten by a Nundu everyone knew that she was coming to take care of Newt. And then there was Credence–shy, still sleeping on the Goldsteins’ couch, and once Percival asked Newt to move in it was a natural next step to offer a room to Credence.

Soon enough, it was as though all six were living full-time in Percival’s house. Not that he minded: he was used to far too much quiet, and having people around was a pleasant shock. Certainly the Goldsteins still had their own apartment, and they liked to stay there most nights, and often enough Newt and Jacob went home with them for dinner. Still, after work, Tina came home with Percival so they could talk shop (what Queenie and Credence called “gossip”) outside of MACUSA. Percival had a dining table big enough for six, so having dinner there was easier than cramming into the Goldsteins’ kitchen. Jacob never even made the offer: and after a month of this, Percival realized what was happening there and invited Jacob to stay on as well. Queenie was over then, often as not, and that was the beginning of things.

After all, it was going very well, until the night that Percival accidentally walked in on Queenie and Jacob.

He immediately froze and backed toward the door, apologizing. Queenie and Jacob shared a long look, and then Queenie looked at Percival and invited him to stay.

It took him a moment to recover. But he did.

The next morning, it came out that Queenie had been carrying a torch for him for quite a while, and that Jacob had been pretending he didn’t notice anything about Percival for the longest time. It was fairly awkward, and they agreed not to talk about it, but secrets didn’t keep well around friends like this.

Newt noticed first, and Tina wasn’t far behind. Credence might have been last, but then again Queenie hinted later on that he’d figured out what was going on before any of the rest of them realized and had just decided not to say anything at all. It took two weeks for the dam of tension to break, but when it did, it went quick.

Later, they couldn’t have said who cracked first. Queenie shoved her sister right into Percival’s path, and Jacob said something to Newt while they were feeding the Mooncalves. Between one breath and the next, everything changed.

The only one left out of the whole thing was Credence, at least for a while. It took exactly one incident of Credence quietly excusing himself from dinner only to be found later with red-rimmed eyes for Tina to drag Percival aside for a long, long talk. When nothing came of that–because no matter what universe they live in, Percival will always agonize over Credence–Queenie locked them both in a closet.

The end result of all this goes like this:

The Goldsteins give up the lease on their apartment, and Jacob does the same with his. To anyone on the outside, it simply looks as if Percival has invited them all in to fill up space: to anyone on the inside, it’s obvious what has changed.

In the morning, Jacob leaves before sunrise to go to the bakery. Credence, who perpetually struggles to sleep, makes breakfast for the two of them before Jacob goes, before crawling back in bed with Percival. Queenie, more often than not, will sleepily come and fall in on Percival’s other side. Tina is their alarm clock, because Newt keeps regular “creature hours” and so the two of them get up at just the right moment for Tina to wake Percival so they can go to work. Queenie goes in a little later; while everyone else is at work, Credence and Newt take care of the animals.

Credence usually goes out alone in the afternoons, walking the length of the city or finding quiet corners to practice away from everyone else, reveling in the novelty of having time alone. Newt sends post around that time, his furious correspondence war with anti-creature factions through papers around the world keeping him thoroughly busy.

Tina drags Percival away from his desk long enough to eat lunch, usually; Queenie drops by the bakery to see Jacob during the same hour. Work is still the same as it always is. But coming home–that’s different.

Queenie leaves work first, and she and Newt have some time alone before everyone else arrives. Newt appreciates not having to hold a real conversation, when she can just read his mind; she loves him more dearly every time he quietly thinks of how lovely she is.

Jacob’s the next to come home, having closed down the bakery for the day; he kisses Queenie at the door and goes down into the suitcase to see Newt and take care of the Nundu (which appears to have adopted him as its kitten).

Percival and Tina come in together. They’ve been caught awkwardly holding hands a time or two. No one makes fun of them for trying things out; Jacob is still not sure exactly how to treat Percival and the feeling is mutual. They like each other too much to stop trying, though. Tina’s glad to see Newt, and they usually step aside for a small moment of privacy as Queenie pulls Percival into the kitchen where he sits and talks while she and Jacob make dinner.

Credence blows into the house last, running in just as dinner is on the table, full of apologies. Percival meets him in the hallway, taking his coat; Newt catches Credence before he can sit down and carefully pulls detritus from the streets out of his hair and brushes New York grime off his shoulders.

After dinner they retire to their various places. Tina and Percival have perpetual paperwork to do, and Jacob wants the chance to sit down and read. Credence and Queenie sit down to chat for a while, and Newt returns to the case to look after the creatures.

By ten o’clock, they gravitate into the library together, interrupting the Aurors at their work. By then, of course, it’s devolved into their “shop talk”; no one minds coming in. Percival gets away from the desk long enough to sit down on the window seat, only to have Credence pile in on one side of him with Tina on his other. Newt sits back from them, tangling his feet with Tina’s from a respectable distance. Jacob occupies a chair Summoned over for the purpose; Queenie sits at his feet. Here they talk, for an hour and a half, until yawns start and Tina starts listing dangerously into Percival’s shoulder.

Then it’s good night, and off to their respective beds. “Respective” is a strong word, when they change place so often. One night, after a quiet conversation earlier in the day, Jacob asks Percival if he might switch places with Credence; another night sees Queenie following Newt into the suitcase instead of Tina. And other times again it’s three of them: Newt, Credence, and Percival have at least one very interesting night together.

And once it’s all six of them, on a winter evening in front of the fireplace; Newt surprisingly cuddly once he’s sleepy, Credence wrapped around Jacob for once, Queenie with her head on Percival’s chest, Tina back to back with her little sister. They wake up stiff from a night on the floor, but happy, happier than any of them have been in a long time, and sure that they actually have a family at last.


	21. Chapter 21

(Please note: [driving INTO storms is considered horribly irresponsible by the storm chasing community](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.washingtonpost.com%2Fnews%2Fcapital-weather-gang%2Fwp%2F2017%2F04%2F03%2Fstorm-chasers-drove-into-a-tornado-on-purpose-then-their-peers-berated-them%2F%3Futm_term%3D.3234c4b8cefb&t=NDVmZWEzNjczZjEyZWM5YzdiMDFmNWFiNjRhNmNlYzk0NjI2NzYzNCw1ZWg2ZVVHUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AVJOuiL3IGZF2HPQBSRSgnw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fwanderingnork.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F164953488665%2Fokay-sostorm-chaser-aujust-gotta-get-this-off-my&m=1), and is not something realistic to do. Please don’t. I do not condone this, I’m actually fucking terrified of thunderstorms. Let alone tornadoes…)

Newt Scamander is a storm chaser. A SCIENTIFIC storm chaser, he’ll remind you: he’s a meteorologist who likes to study his subject on the ground. In order to get paid, he acts as a storm spotter for the National Weather Service, which is the lucrative part. The data he collects is his. 

He needs a driver for this, and a courageous crew: Newt likes to get right into the middle of things. As in, he wants to get right under a funnel cloud. This requires a certain level of sheer suicidal stupidity: so he’s managed to get a woman with nerves of steel to drive for him. Tina is able to drive just about any vehicle; in fact, she’s a mechanic. Tina quit her job to drive Newt’s Tornado Intercept Vehicle (nicknamed “The Suitcase” after its boxy appearance and shockingly large interior) right into the heart of the storm. 

Jacob Kowalski, Newt’s best friend, comes along: he’s a photographer of some skill, looking for his big break by taking photos of some of nature’s most majestic and terrifying events. And Tina’s sister Queenie was recently recruited: the other three are too busy to pay attention to radar, GPS, and radio–all of which Queenie handles really, really well. Credence Barebone is a Tornado Alley native born and bred–unlike these yahoos from New York–and is Newt’s slightly harried intern, on loan from University of Nebraska. 

And they’d like to say that they never get in trouble, but they do. Storm chasing is dangerous business, even when there’s no supercell on the horizon. Cars get stuck in creeks, angry people with guns are frequent occurrences in the Midwest, and sometimes you just need someone to pick up the coffee. Which is where Percival Graves comes in. An ex-cop who knew Tina Way Back When, he now acts as their backup driver, backup GPS reader, and Sensible Person to keep them out of trouble. 

It’s kind of a crazy life, out on the road. There’s more downtime than people think, even in the summer in Tornado Alley. Newt and Credence have to spend hours tracking weather data to pinpoint spots where storm cells might appear, following warm and cold fronts, wind shear, and other factors. Sometimes there just isn’t one within driving range, and at those times it’s pretty boring. Pickup games of basketball (which Tina consistently wins), impromptu Monopoly games with rules invented on the spot, and visits to the local library are common. In Nebraska, they eat Runza for dinner almost every night; in Iowa, somehow it’s always corn. People stare at them when they come into restaurants, disheveled and loud; none of them care. They sleep in extended stay hotels, crammed into two rooms at a time since they’re practically broke, and for all intents and purposes this is just a normal road trip.

But then a storm hits, and it’s all hands on deck. 

Since Newt doesn’t just watch storms, but drives right into them, they have their work cut out for them. They have to plan for escape routes in case of emergency, decide the best path into the storm, as well as gather data, take photographs, and simply drive the car. It’s terrifying, dangerous work: but the data Newt’s gathering is good, and Jacob’s photographs are getting better. 

But storms are getting worse and worse as tornado season gets longer and longer, and climate change brings an ever worse situation into focus. It’s not a pretty picture. To get definitive data on just how bad the storms are getting, Newt needs to drive straight into an F-5 tornado, one of the biggest storm systems to strike the region ever…and he’s taking his whole crew along with him.

They’ll be lucky to get out alive.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For toffy, who wanted her original character meeting Credence and Graves and getting a moment of happiness. <3

He waits at the bar far too long. The contact–whose name Newt gave only as Thea–is supposed to have been here. Instead, Graves has been standing there for what feels like half an hour. Credence is at the table in the corner, keeping a watchful eye on proceedings; Graves would rather be at the table with him.

Finally, a woman in dark clothes with a hat that veils most of her face steps up beside him. “Percival Graves?” she says, in an accent he can’t quite place.

“Finally,” he says. “Where’ve you _been_?”

“Throwing off pursuit,” Thea says. “You can thank me later.”

Graves gives her a hard look. “Scamander said you had information on Grindelwald’s whereabouts, which is the only reason I’m in this Godforsaken corner of Europe.”

Thea laughs quietly, barely audible over the cacophony of the bar. “Of course I have information about Grindelwald.” She slides an envelope to him and he whisks it out of sight, to be picked apart later. “There.”

She should depart, but instead stands there in silence, looking at the top of the bar. “Did you have other business tonight?” Graves asks, and winces a little at how dismissive that sounds. 

“No,” Thea says. She shrugs, visibly listless. “This was my only business. Now I’m not sure what I’ll be doing.”

Graves hesitates. She sounds so _unhappy_. “…come sit,” he says, gesturing to their table, and offers his arm. To his surprise, Thea takes it. 

He guides her across the room. As they approach the table, Credence stands up. “Evening,” Thea says. 

“Good evening,” Credence says. His eyes flick between Graves and Thea and Graves nods subtly, letting Credence know that this is fine. 

Thea sits down and they make something resembling introductions. Credence somehow migrates so that he’s within touching distance of Graves, who does not mind at all. She watches them with her head tilted slightly, curious, as Credence links his hand with Graves’. Graves glances at the young man and is greeted by a perfect, quiet smile. Heedless of onlookers–somehow he always is–Graves closes the gap between them to peck Credence on the lips. 

“You two are practically the stuff of legend,” Thea says. 

“You come highly recommended yourself,” Graves says. 

She rolls her eyes, putting her elbow on the table and chin in her hand. “Oh, I’m nothing special.”

“If what’s in that envelope is what Scamander says it is, then you might have just won the war for us,” Graves says. 

Thea laughs, cynical and bitter. “More bloodshed. Just what I wanted.”

Credence’s eyes flicker. He leans forward. “Miss Thea…I don’t know what happened, but you should have a drink with us. And forget.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re already at the table,” Credence points out. He picks the most interesting moments to become bold. It keeps Graves on his toes. “You can have a drink. We aren’t bad company. Percival _can_ tell jokes, even if his reputation says he can’t.”

“Hey,” Graves says, mildly aggrieved, but Thea smiles for the first time that evening. It’s a lovely smile and he can’t be too irritated when Credence’s little jab had brought it around. 

Credence practically bats his eyelashes at the woman. “Please stay,” he says.

She hesitates. “…all right,” she says at last. She takes off her hat and sets it aside. Now Graves can see the curse scar arcing over face and down her jaw, a sign of a nasty fight. “What’s it going to be?”

“You pick,” Graves says, when Credence looks at him. “Go on.”

Credence smiles, kisses him on the cheek, and gets up to go to the bar. There’s a moment of quiet, broken by a bang as someone drops a chair. Thea and Graves flinch at the same time and instantly two wands are out on the table. A moment later, when it’s clear there’s no danger, they meet eyes. 

“You too?” Graves says. 

“You don’t get to be as good as I am if not,” Thea says. 

Graves smiles, a little cynical himself. “Nice to meet another professional.”

She glances over at Credence, who’s carrying drinks back to them. “At least you’re happy,” she says, a little wistfully. 

“Are we that obvious?”

“You kissed him in public in a Muggle bar,” Thea says, breaking into a real grin for the first time. “You couldn’t be _more_ obvious! Subtlety isn’t your strong suit, is it?”

“Hey!” Graves objects.

Credence arrives and sets drinks down in front of them both. “Everything all right?” he asks.

“You two are ganging up on me,” Graves says, mock-glaring at them both.

Lighting up with mischief, Credence raises his glass with a laugh. “Here’s to _finally_ having someone around who doesn’t put up with Percival’s nonsense!” 

Thea laughs, too, and clinks her glass with his. She visibly relaxes, and looks genuinely happy. And maybe they are in the middle of a war, and they’ve all seen horrible things, and they’re all a little broken and bent. But hell with it: tonight, they get to be happy.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [YES, THIS IS A PART OF THE IKEA SERIES. SHHHHHHHHHHH.](http://archiveofourown.org/series/443791)

“I didn’t sign up to spend the entire afternoon here,” Percival says.

Queenie squeezes his hand. “Yes, you did! You walked in the doors!”

“Accurate,” Tina says, looking around at the bright blue atrium. “What are we even looking for?”

Jacob grins. “What aren’t we looking for? It’s IKEA, they’ve got everything.”

Newt clears his throat. “Remember, we’re just helping Credence furnish his apartment,” he says.

Percival glances at the kid, following behind Tina with his hands tucked in his pockets and his eyes on the ground. He was kind of a charity case of Tina’s, since she’d pulled him out of a nasty roommate situation and given him a couch to sleep on until he could get his feet under him. It was the summer after his college graduation, and Credence finally had enough money saved up and a steady enough income to have an apartment of his own. “You really don’t have to do this,” Credence says to the floor.

“We want to, though,” Percival says, speaking for all of them. Really, he’ll be paying the lion’s share. Being an attorney has a lot of drawbacks, but Percival considers it a major perk to be able to help his friends out whenever he wants.

Credence gives him a shy look. “Thank you,” he says.

Tina links her arm through Credence’s, pulling him onto the escalator that leads up to the Showroom. “Come on,” she says, “let’s start by finding you a bed.”

“Don’t look so gloomy, Percy,” Jacob says. “It’ll be easy!”

It is not easy.

Somehow, despite the plain yellow arrows pointing them from one department to the next, they are now hopelessly lost. Bed and bath were supposed to be past living and dining, which are tangled messes of chairs and tables and dishware that are hopeless to navigate when Newt and Queenie insist on constantly going off the beaten path to see new things.

“I thought this was going to be a brief trip,” Percival mutters to Tina, as Queenie pulls Credence off to look at what might be a spice rack.

“He doesn’t have a stick of furniture or anything else that isn’t in his suitcase,” Tina says. 

Percival sighs. “I know,” he says. “But this could have been done in multiple trips. And we could have picked up a map.”

It’s been three hours since they entered the store, and there’s no sign of bedrooms. No, they’re in the kitchen section now, and Percival isn’t even sure how they got there. It seems as if they’d simply stepped between two shelving units and there are kitchen islands and cabinets and sundries that Percival had never even considered before now.

“Starting to feel a bit like Odysseus,” Jacob says. He examines a rolling pin, experimentally hefting it. “You know–he almost didn’t get home! Only got back because he wanted to come back to Penelope, you know.”

“Well, your Penelope is off hauling my Newt around to look at knife blocks,” Tina says, “so I hope that you have some reason to try to get home!”

Credence, hovering by the stopped cart, looks slightly panicked. Percival leaves Tina and Jacob to discuss the merits of a non-professional baker having a rolling pin and goes to stand with the young man. “All right?”

“Not really,” Credence says quietly. He fidgets with his sleeve. “This is just very…loud.”

It is. There are people flooding past in a strange orderly chaos, children laughing and shrieking, suburban mothers talking on cell phones, excited men shouting about anything under the sun. Percival’s hair is standing on end and he doesn’t even mind crowds. Shy Credence must be about to go out of his mind.

“Tell you what,” Percival says, “looks like the others have got this pretty much handled. You want to go find lunch? IKEA is supposed to have a decent restaurant.”

“I don’t want to impose,” Credence says softly.

Percival smiles at him. “Not a problem,” he says. He sends off a quick text to the group chat, letting them know that he’s taking Credence to find lunch and they’ll meet up in the restaurant, and then guides Credence out of the chaos.

Once they aren’t being diverted by random interest, it’s remarkably easy to navigate the store. They breeze past the displays to break out into a still-crowded but more-orderly cafeteria. After they get food–which looks honestly delicious–Percival locates the quietest possible table for them.

They eat without much small talk. Percival’s not inclined to push, when Credence looks so tired; and the kid doesn’t perk up after he’s eaten. “This is a little bit much,” Credence says, pushing his tray aside and resting his head on the table.

Percival feels a pang of sympathy. It’s easy to forget the age differences in their odd little group of friends, when they’re hanging around Jacob’s apartment on Percival’s days off playing video games and shouting: he’s nearly twenty years older than Credence. “I drove myself here. Do you want to go?”

“No,” Credence says into the table. “I just want to sleep.”

Suddenly, a devious and alarming idea appears in Percival’s head. “…I’ve heard some stories,” he says, “about people who’ve lived in IKEA.”

Credence pops up, wide-eyed. “I’m not moving into this store!”

“Not moving in,” Percival says with a grin. “Just…finding a spot to take a nap.”

There’s a sparkle in Credence’s eyes. “I like that,” he says. “Where do you think we should go? Will the others worry?”

“They’re too busy with shopping and trying to play Tetris with flat-pack furniture,” Percival says. “Besides–if I remember right, there’s plenty of space to sleep in rugs and flooring, which is on the way out anyway.”

“All right,” Credence says.

It takes a bit of searching to find an appropriately hidden corner, but find one they do. There are just rugs heaped everywhere, varying degrees of plush and many out of direct sight where shoppers clearly don’t go, and when they finally find a good pile Credence collapses into it with a groan. “I need this,” he mutters.

Percival looks down at him. “I can keep an eye on things and wait for you to wake up,” he says.

Credence scoots over and pats the rugs next to him. “No,” he says, “you should join me.”

This somehow seems like a bad idea, but Percival sits down anyway. He reclines on the pile and takes a photo of their corner, texting it to the group so that they can be found later.

He’s surprised when Credence snuggles into his side, the tall young man contriving to make himself small. “What are you doing?”

“Sleeping,” Credence says. “You said this was a spot for napping, so.”

Carefully, Percival works his arm around Credence so that he doesn’t break his shoulder holding his arm over his head. “Fine,” he says as Credence plants his head firmly on Percival’s shoulder, “you sleep. I’ll keep an eye out for marauding employees.”

This does not work out quite as well as Percival hoped, either.

The next thing he knows, he’s being awakened by Newt shaking his shoulder while Tina and Jacob laugh helplessly at something on Tina’s phone. Percival shakes himself–and realizes that somehow in his sleep he’s ended up straightforwardly spooning with Credence on the pile of rugs.

“Damn it,” he says.

“No shame, no shame,” Jacob says. He takes out his phone and takes a photo of Percival and Credence.

Newt’s barely suppressing a smirk. “Having a good time?”

“Just fine until you woke us up,” Credence grumbles. He moves and Percival sits up, massaging his aching shoulder. Credence sits up too, running his fingers through his hair. “Are we ready to go?”

Queenie nods, helping Percival to his feet. “Still have to get out, but that should be easy! As long as we don’t lose you two again, or run into that ugly man who looked like a pineapple.”

“The who?” Percival asks.

Tina sticks out her tongue. “Some manager who kept trying to get us to buy stuff we didn’t need. Awful bleach-blond hair.”

“With a name like Grindelwald, he should be starring as the villain in a movie!” Newt says.

This time, it’s fairly easy to get out of IKEA. They pay for all the furniture and finagle it into Newt’s enormous truck, and manage to get it all the way back to Credence’s apartment. Unloading is an absolute nightmare, but they get it done, and suddenly the empty little apartment is full of flat-pack boxes.

“Now,” Percival says, with a certain delight, “comes the really good part.”

“Which is…?” Tina asks.

“Putting it all together.”

“We’re all going to go crazy,” Jacob says.

Newt smiles. “True! But at least we’ll all be going crazy together!”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope nobody is bothered by this heap of random fic...

“I’m almost offended that you didn’t think I could cook,” Newt says.

“Don’t take this wrong, but–I didn’t think you could sit still that long,” Queenie replies, watching Newt bending to pull open the oven door. She’s at the kitchen table, waiting for him to bring out dinner.

Newt looks over his shoulder at her. “I spent a week hiding in a tree trying to get a single look at a tiger, once. A pie baking in the oven isn’t anything special.”

Queenie smiles at him as he turns back to the oven and reaches in to pull out the pie dish, full to the brim with filling and covered with a golden pastry top. He carries it to the table and sets it down on a potholder that Queenie insisted on using even though the table wouldn’t get hurt by a hot pie dish.

With a flick of his wand, Newt Summons two plates and forks and the serving spoon to the table. “How much do you want?”

“As much as you do?” Queenie hazards.

Newt flicks her lightly on the nose before turning to serve her a fairly significant portion of the pie. Queenie feels immediately twice as hungry when the pie’s in front of her: it looks rich and savory and smells delicious, with onions and steak and that delightful-looking crust.

“How is it?” Newt asks, looking mildly anxious, as he sits down kitty-corner to her, his own plate in front of him.

Queenie takes a bite and very nearly makes an indecent sound. “Newt,” she says, turning to him with wide eyes, “I’m giving up cooking forever. You can do it from now on until forever. This is amazing.”

At that, Newt breaks into a beautiful smile, ducking his head and turning red in the face with delighted embarrassment. “You think so? It’s not half as good as your pie…”

“I think the only way to decide that would be to go to some county fair and submit them,” Queenie says. “And even then, I think they’d both get blue ribbons!”

Newt drops his fork. “Queenie!”

She leans over and kisses him, the angle terrible and her elbow almost in the food and Newt halfway off his chair. It’s a perfect evening, and Queenie couldn’t be happier.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mass chapter uploading from way back in OCTOBER, when I put out a call for prompts for me to write for my birthday. Somehow never managed to put any of these here? 
> 
> This one: Credence/Graves, a prompt about crunchy autumn leaves.

The Graves estate is massive, sprawling acre after acre, folded away in an extradimensional space warded and guarded against any intrusion. The magic here is still the magic of the Good People, laid down by Graves’ ancestors before the power faded in the inheritors of the estate. Merely breathing this air is, to him, an absolute balm to the soul. 

It seems that the same thing is true for Credence, who instantly relaxed when he walked onto the grounds. He carries himself differently now–no less tentative and nervous, but lighter, as though the world isn’t sitting on his shoulders. His eyes are brighter, and his smiles are more frequent.

Since Graves’ rescue and Credence’s recovery, they’ve been sent to live here, out of the public eye. The space is large, and there’s plenty of room for Credence to have magical disasters whenever he wants. There’s also solitude enough for Graves to work out how he’ll move forward in this new world. 

Today they’re simply out walking among the wildfire of autumn leaves. The sun is out, so despite the chill early-October breeze Graves is only in his shirtsleeves. Credence, who hates the cold, is bundled to the ears and happy about it. Leaves crack and crunch underfoot, and the delicious smell of dusty, decaying loam is on the air. More leaves fall from above constantly, floating down in a rain of yellow and red, sometimes coming to rest on their heads and shoulders. 

“It’s beautiful,” Credence murmurs, looking up at the trees. “You’re lucky to live here.”

“You live here too,” Graves says, glancing at the young man. 

Credence ducks his head. His cheeks turn slightly pink. “I know. Thank you.”

“Of course, Credence.” Graves takes Credence’s hand, and Credence gifts him with a small, happy smile. 

They don’t talk much about this, since it’s easy to see and they both know exactly what they’re getting into. It’s not important to mention the habit Graves has fallen into of kissing the top of Credence’s head, of the fact that Credence sits next to Graves in the evenings, pressed against him from hip to shoulder. They both know. Still, it’s a fragile thing, and if they spoke of it Graves is sure that they both fear it’ll break. 

The leaves piled around the trees slide under their feet, and Graves can’t help a laugh when Credence slips on them. Credence throws a handful of leaves at him in retaliation and Graves responds in kind, as if they’re throwing snowballs. It doesn’t take long before Credence is lifting half a tree’s worth of leaves with magic and dropping them on Graves’ head. Graves yanks Credence down into the pile beside him and they lie there, panting a little, holding hands again. 

Somewhere nearby there are Wood Nymphs singing, adding an ethereal quality to the scene. Graves isn’t surprised, particularly, when Credence tentatively leans over and kisses him. He reciprocates, just a little, not sure if he’s trying to avoid scaring Credence or avoiding scaring himself. 

“You have a leaf in your hair,” Credence says when they break apart.

“You have half a tree in yours,” Graves replies, running his fingers through Credence’s hair, sending leaves tumbling. 

Credence only smiles and leans back, the leaves crunching under him. Graves follows suit, staring up into the fiery canopy. The leaves continue to fall, promising autumn and a long, cold winter. When they go home, though they’ve wandered far out of sight of the actual grounds, Graves will be able to point them, the magic drawing him like a magnet draws the needle of a compass. And it will be “going home”, because it’s very clear to Graves, now, that even if this estate is his, it will never be home without Credence again. When autumn and winter end, and the estate bursts into new green life, Graves can only hope that he and Credence will be here to witness it together.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newt/Graves, Halloween celebrations!
> 
> (And a one-sentence cameo by an Accidental Epic OC.)

Halloween is an interesting time of year for witches and wizards in places where it’s celebrated. For most, it’s simply an opportunity to have some fun on a night when Muggles will chalk anything up to superstition and Halloween-night jitters; for Graves, it’s a long, long night of dealing with incident after incident of wizards and witches incautiously breaking the Statute of Secrecy. Over the years that he’s been in the Auror Office, he’s really come to dislike Halloween. He spends the evening in his office, preparing for the influx of reports tomorrow and making sure that the Investigative Team takes care of the rampant law-breaking on the night. 

The whole of MACUSA knows that Director Graves will never under any circumstances show up to the annual Masquerade Ball. The event is attended by notaries from across the country and every MACUSA employee has a standing invitation. Statues and suits of armor come alive and battalions of ghosts are invited to roam the halls in the finest fashion of fear. Mirrors are enchanted to show terrifying apparitions behind the onlooker. The dance floor is made to look as if the dancers are spinning through the darkness of the sky surrounded by silver stars. The best broomstick riders are invited to soar overhead wearing traditional dress, adding a touch of No-Maj legend to the whole thing. Vampires are encouraged to attend, the one night of the year where their presence is welcomed. Music resounds from every corner, spooky and discordant; the feast is served at midnight, when all parties remove their masks and reveal themselves. It’s an enchanting night, even by the standards of wizards.

And Graves never, ever attends. 

Newt, on the other hand, does not dislike the holiday at all. On the contrary, Newt takes his celebrations to absolutely wild extremes. Rumor has it that Newt is one of those people who’s actually danced naked in the moonlight, or some such outlandish thing. And no one who knows him at all has any reason to disbelieve the idea that Newt is fully willing to do something like that.. In his travels he’s collected many masks, enchanted and mundane, and it seems he has one for every day of October. On Halloween all his creativity and magical skill is turned to tricks and pranks, from simple sleight-of-hand to complex spells that catch the unwary off-guard. 

The fact that he receives an invitation to the Masquerade Ball, the event where he’ll be allowed to do whatever he wants, nearly sends those who know him at all into a conniption. 

Theseus writes a panicked letter to Graves, begging that the invitation be rescinded “for the good of American security”. Tina bursts into Graves’ office, tripping over herself to explain that this can only end badly because Newt is legendary trickster and will definitely do something more dramatic than ever at the ball, which will not be well-received.

Graves scoffs at both of them. Quiet, retiring, focused Newt–a wild Halloween celebrator? What will he do?

Theseus paints stories of Pixies being set loose on unsuspecting celebrants and Boggarts Newt caught in “haunted” houses running wild in the halls. Tina tells tales of apples which when bitten into turn into mouthfuls of frog eyes and of carpets coming up to wrap themselves around people without warning. They both relate stories of Newt casting spells to make unsuspecting partygoers croak like frogs, tap-dance as well as the No-Maj Fred Astaire, or have their heads spin (harmlessly) around and around on their shoulders like a record. 

When all’s said and done, Graves sighs. He tells Winfrith Simon (irritable, reliable Winfrith, who hates Halloween as much as Graves does) that she’ll be in charge of the Halloween-night investigations. And then he dashes off his RSVP to the Ball Planning Committee, affirming his intent to attend. 

The fated night comes and Graves and Newt, in their separate homes, don their masks. For Graves it’s a simple black domino mask, a perfunctory thing that hides only half his face. Newt wears a more elaborate mask that hides his whole face behind a devilish visage. 

When Newt arrives he goes utterly unnoticed among the chaos of costumes and masks, vanishing immediately into the crowd with his scheme to plan. Graves, however, is instantly recognized, and the whispers begin. The Director has finally come to the Masquerade Ball–why? Why tonight, of all nights? What is so special about the year 1929? Seraphina Picquery, in the mask of a dragon, only shakes her head in mild exasperation. Of course Graves only came when there was a chance of lawbreaking.

The night wears on and on with no sign of mischief from Newt. Graves takes a turn about the floor with Madam President, of course, and they gossip thoroughly about all the other attendees as they dance. He and Tina dance, and so do he and Queenie–before Graves leaves her to the heavily masked man who is definitely not her No-Maj sweetheart. Emboldened by example, other witches and wizards invite Graves to dance, and he does. To his surprise, he’s able to forget about work, about the mess that tomorrow will be. He’s simply having fun.

As midnight and the moment for the revelation of who’s beneath each mask approach, Graves is approached by a man in a devil’s mask, cloaked heavily in the Venetian Carnival style. Graves has no idea who the man is, but when he wordlessly offers a hand Graves takes it. 

They make a fine pair, and they are still dancing when the clock strikes its booming midnight. The whole room stops, waiting; the masks will come off at the very stroke of twelve. Celebrants subtly untie ribbons or begin to remove the enchantments supporting their masks, preparing for the moment of surprise. 

It is not a surprise when Graves removes his mask, but he is surprised when the man he’s been dancing with doffs mask and hat and hood to reveal Newt underneath. 

“Happy Halloween, Percival,” Newt says with a brilliant smile. 

“I expected you to make some kind of mischief well before midnight,” Graves says, unable to resist returning the smile. “To pull some kind of prank or trick some unsuspecting soul.”

“Oh, I did,” Newt says. He takes Graves’ hand. “You.”

“What do you mean?”

Newt’s eyes sparkle. “I didn’t plan any more mischief than what it took to bring you to the party tonight. That was the trick. Did you enjoy it?”

It begins to dawn on Graves what has happened. He’s been thoroughly japed into actually enjoying himself for once, and he can’t help laughing. “I did,” he says. “And I think for that trick, you should have whatever treat you want.”

“Dance with me,” Newt says, and Graves does. 

Next year they go to the Masquerade Ball together, and when they remove their masks at midnight, MACUSA is delightfully scandalized when Graves surprises Newt with their first kiss, right in the center of the room, under the starry Halloween sky.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credence/Graves, first kiss!

Credence waits in the cold alleyway. He’s not sure, yet, if Mr. Graves will come today, but he hopes anyway. The man hasn’t missed a meeting yet, and still there’s always that uncertainty, that question. 

This isn’t supposed to be something that they do. Credence has resigned himself to a life of a small talent, something he’s not even supposed to use. Not a squib–but not a true wizard. With the Obscurus burnt out of him, he’s got nothing. He can’t be a part of the magical community, can’t have a wand.

Or at least he thought so. 

Percival Graves had been recovered, and Credence had seen his face in the papers that Tina snuck him on the sly. And he’d known from the first instant that this man wasn’t the same one who’d used him and hurt him. It had taken some courage, ingenuity, and a little help from Queenie and Tina, but Credence had managed to send the man a message, asking to meet him.

And so another round of clandestine meetings had begun. Credence picked the same alleyway where he’d met “Mr. Graves” the first time, out of a sense of twisted irony that made him smile. Maybe now he could wipe the slate clean. One meeting had turned into another, then another, then five, then eight…and now these meetings are a regular part of their lives. They talk about nothing much, usually; about Credence’s mundane job as a secretary for a lawyer in Manhattan, about the more entertaining stories from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. 

They also talk about magic. Mr. Graves has given Credence exercises to practice, things that can help him get better, to focus and use his magic so that, perhaps, he can someday prove to MACUSA that he deserves a place as a wizard in truth. Mr. Graves has said more than once that he feels Credence has a real talent, that all his magic not gone–that perhaps it’s simply locked away, preserved against a real calamity. And Credence trusts him. 

He doesn’t expect a happy ending, but he’ll make do with what he’s got.

There’s a crack at the end of the alley and Mr. Graves appears in view. He breaks into a smile when he sees Credence, and Credence can’t help but smile back. “Good afternoon,” Mr. Graves says, coming to stand beside Credence. 

“Afternoon,” Credence murmurs. He feels absurdly flustered, as usual; Mr. Graves is a handsome man, and Credence has more feelings than are appropriate here. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s a damn _relief_ to see you,” Mr. Graves says. “You have no idea how long this day has been. The Swedes sent a delegation to help with a mountain troll that got loose in Appalachia last week–escaped an underground beast-fighting ring–and their Head Auror is a piece of work, let me tell you!”

Credence cocks his head. “What did he do?”

Mr. Graves sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Credence itches to reach out and fix the loose strands, or perhaps to muss it further. He keeps his hands to himself. “Decided to start a fight with Scamander about troll regulation policies in the lobby.”

“Oh, God preserve the man. Did he live?”

“Newt Scamander is a creative man when it comes to hexes and jinxes.”

Credence laughs at all the unspoken things there. “What, did Newt turn his head into a cabbage?”

“Almost!” Mr. Graves says. “Any adventures of yours today?”

“Not really,” Credence says, looking up at the sky, a slice of dim blue overhead. This is the trouble, really; his life is so mundane and boring compared with the one Mr. Graves leads. “Just typing.”

Mr. Graves leans against the wall. “You know I’d enjoy hearing about anything you have to say, magical or not.”

“It’s tedious. I’m tedious.”

“Credence. You could never be,” Mr. Graves says. His voice is strange, gentle, and it frightens Credence as much as it makes his heart leap. Credence looks at him and sees him looking back. 

There’s a moment of stillness. Then Mr. Graves leans in and, uncertainly, kisses Credence.

Credence thinks his heart just stopped.

Mr. Graves leans back and they stare at each other again. 

They don’t need words to know that the best course of action is to crash into each other again, hands in hair and noses bumping, breathing each other in, tasting each other, feeling happy for the first time in so, so long. Sparks explode in the air around them, literal fireworks, and they’re Credence’s magic. 

Explanations and conversations come later. How Mr. Graves came to feel things about Credence that he thought weren’t appropriate, and how they’d managed to unlock some of Credence’s missing magic, and how they plan to move forward. Their second real kiss is in the Wand Permits office, the day that Credence receives his wand, and truly becomes a wizard. 

It looks like he might get a happy ending, after all.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graves/Theseus Scamander, major character death warning.

* * *

Percival wears a wedding ring, and the world will never know why.

Theseus has heard all of the common-knowledge inaccuracies. That Percival has a wife, a beautiful albeit reclusive woman who lives at the Graves estate, out of the way of any prying eyes. That his wife is locked up in a madhouse and he wears the ring out of sentimentality and undying loyalty. That the Director of Magical Security, the man who arrests wizards every other day for violating the Statute of Secrecy, is protecting a No-Maj wife. That he’s married to Seraphina Picquery–the only rumor publicly debunked by both involved parties, but a rumor which persists anyway. 

All of these rumors, however, are only rumors. 

No one will ever guess the truth, because Theseus does not wear a ring. 

The eyes of the world see Theseus Scamander, the confirmed bachelor, the man whose exploits in Europe were second only to Napoleon Bonaparte in matters of arms and second only to Giacomo Casanova in matters of love. He’s turned down few enough proposals, if only because every one of his affairs is begun with mutual knowledge of an ending. He’s the Lion of Britain, the greatest duelist of the age, the loudest voice calling for an open assault on Grindelwald’s fortress Nurmengard. If Percival is shrouded in mystery, then Theseus lives on the center of the stage. 

What no one knows–what no one can know, except for their closest and most trusted acquaintances–is that they are, in each other’s eyes, married. 

On the day of the Armistice during the Great War, the artillery fire had died. In their trench they had finally looked up and realized that things were over. The cease-fire had begun.

But no one cheered, because no one had the energy to cheer. The trenches were still mud and men were still dying in No Man’s Land out beyond the barbed wire. It felt like the world was holding its breath. Theseus had turned to Percival–so much younger, then–and said, “This isn’t the end, is it?”

And they’d come out of the trenches and gone home, and within days they knew that this wasn’t peace. It was only an absence of war. They were both going to continue their careers as Aurors, a career which existed only because someone needed to hold a wand to fight.

“I won’t go back to war without you,” Theseus said one night in bed, the last night they’d be together before Percival returned to America.

“You will,” Percival said. At that time, the five years between them had seemed like such a gulf. He kissed Theseus on the forehead. “You’ll go on and be the most incredible Auror the world’s ever seen, mark my words.”

Theseus shook his head. “No. Not without you.”

“I have to go back to America.”

“Then–promise me you’ll come back,” Theseus said. “I’ll–I’ll give you a reason, if you need it, you can marry me and then you have to come back.”

It was a child’s reasoning, a child’s hope, but Percival had hesitated all the same. “I don’t need a reason to come back to you,” he said quietly. “Marry me anyway, and I can pretend I got to take you home with me.”

In the end it was a secret, and remains so. Percival was going to be in a place of power and so was Theseus, and neither of them could afford to be a chink in their country’s armor. This is still true. Theseus doesn’t wear a ring, and Percival invented a wife, and a whole world has been built around them as a defense. Of course Newt knows, and it came out to Picquery because Percival trusts her implicitly. Percival gave Theseus carte blanche to sleep with whoever he wants, because Theseus has always been on the fiery side of things, and Theseus makes sure that Percival knows he’s got the same privilege. 

So no one knows. 

And when they work together, if they share a room–no one has to know what they do in the dark, that more words pass between them than the witty repartee that they use to mask themselves. No one has to see them as anything more than close friends and colleagues, the sort of men who share respect and camaraderie that can only be bought in blood. And no one does. Their enemies never realize that there’s a vulnerability that they might exploit.

This is why, when Percival’s body is recovered from Grindelwald’s hold, he is buried wearing a wedding ring, and Theseus sheds no tears at his funeral. It’s why he raises a glass to Percival in private, and takes a pretty young woman for an evening’s bacchanal mere days after Percival has been laid in the ground. This is what the world expects of Theseus Scamander, and Percival’s name has been through enough in the hands of his own country. Theseus will not be a part of that. He will protect Percival until the bitter end, even if Percival isn’t there to see it. 

After all, in the memories that Picquery shared with Theseus, the memories extracted from Grindelwald’s mind that show Percival’s final hours, Percival never once said Theseus’ name. 

The only proof of what Percival felt is the ring he was still wearing when they found him, the ring that Grindelwald forgot to wear. That ring’s absence is the reason that Newt knew who he was, the reason that New York was saved, that the wizarding world was saved. 

“War is not the answer. It is love that can save the world,” Albus Dumbledore reminds Theseus one night after Theseus has spent the day fighting the Wizengamot yet again, trying to get them to attack Nurmengard. 

“I know,” Theseus says, thinking of the ring he’d put on Percival’s finger. “And I owe it to someone I love to go to war again.”

He won’t go back to war without Percival.

Theseus Scamander wears a wedding ring, and the world will never know why.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jacob and Credence, learning how to read.

“I dunno how you’ve gotten around this far without being able to read,” Jacob says. “Ain’t the Bible something you need to understand?”

“I was never allowed to read,” Credence says softly, half-afraid and half-defiant. He looks to Jacob like he’s bracing himself for a slap. 

Jacob isn’t going to hit the kid. “Didn’t want you getting your own ideas.”

“No,” Credence says. His fingers twist in the hem of his jacket. “I know some things, I know the alphabet, I’m not stupid, but…”

“Come on, sit down,” Jacob says. He ushers Credence into the kitchen and sits him down at the counter. “Ain’t anything to be ashamed of. Hell, I couldn’t read until I was thirteen and got a job as a paper boy.”

“Thirteen?” Credence looks at him in surprise. “I thought…”

“We weren’t rich enough to make school worthwhile,” Jacob says with a shrug. He wishes he had schoolbooks or something, but he’ll make do with what he’s got. He looks through his few recipe books, trying to figure out which one will be the least painful. “I learned on the job.”

Credence leans on the counter, head cocked. There’s the curious kid Jacob’s gotten to know and love. “How did you learn?”

“Reading a lot,” Jacob says. He sets what looks like the simplest book down on the counter by Credence. “Used to read every newspaper I got. Hid one in my jacket so I could take it home and study. Can’t be taken advantage of if you can read and understand.”

“Oh,” Credence says. He traces the red-and-white checked cover of the book. “So you want me to…”

Jacob sits down by him. “You get started with this, I guess. I’ll see if I can find something else–ain’t no novel-reader, but I’ll figure something out. If you can read this, you can read anything else. Words are all the same.”

Credence nods, a look of determination settling over his face. “Right.”

“Spell out the title, would you?”

Credence does, following each letter with his finger, and then slowly he hedges, “…good meals and how to prepare them?”

“Yeah. You know more than you think, kid.”

“Oh,” Credence says. He’s got a small smile now, and Jacob’s heart warms. “I think I can do this.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queenie/Newt. A meditation on why this couple makes sense.

They make an odd couple.

Queenie can hear the thoughts perfectly well: this small, stylish, New-York-girl with no employment prospects but as a particularly pretty secretary running in the wake of a tall, eccentric, desperately British magizoologist. Whatever is the world coming to? How could someone who looks like Queenie Goldstein genuinely enjoy the company of someone like Newt Scamander?

She ignores their thoughts, generally. They don’t have to understand. 

It’s like something out of a fairy tale, but Newt’s no traditional knight. He’s prone to fits of melancholy, smarter than anyone Queenie’s ever met, is strong and fast and terribly good at complex magic, and can be absolutely terrible at dealing with people. Oh, he can read them well enough, but figuring out which buttons to push to get them to do what he needs is often hopelessly beyond him. 

Which is what Queenie’s good at. 

She’s as melancholy as he is, and as lonely, even if she doesn’t act like it. She’s not so smart, sometimes, but she’s got a quick wit and that counts for a lot. And she doesn’t do much complicated magic, she isn’t strong or fast, but she can read people and play them like puppets, when she wants. 

When Queenie’s there, Newt never fails a permit application, gets held up at Customs, or stopped in the street by someone looking for a fight. And when Newt’s there, Queenie never gets funny looks, or whistles from men on the street, or hears a single whisper about herself. 

They make sense together, that’s all. 

No one else really has to understand.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PIRATES.
> 
> Much like the Pacific Rim tale earlier on, this is more of an...evocative sketch than a full-blown story. Here's hoping y'all enjoy anyway! (And there's a history note at the end.)

Seraphina Picquery would like you to know that she is a privateer, not a pirate, thank you very much. The year is 1774, and her three-masted schooner the _Eagle_ carries a letter of marque from the government of New York. She is supposed to engage real pirates out of the Long Island Sound, protecting merchant vessels sailing to New York. It’s a profitable and worthwhile job, if dangerous, and Picquery wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Her first mate, the former naval soldier Percival Graves, is stern and solemn. He’s the anchor of the crew, providing invaluable advice and experience to Seraphina as he oversees the operations of the ship. Second mate Ya Zhou, a Chinese sailor who ended up in the Colonies by a series of accidents and happenstance, handily and independently manages the work of running the ship, from working the rigging to managing the supplies. 

Their cook, Queenie Goldstein, is Tina’s sister and perhaps the most popular member of the crew. Able-bodied seamen Jacob Kowalski and Tina Goldstein (from New York), and Newt Scamander (from London) have years of experience working on merchant vessels. And the ordinary seamen Hiram Abernathy, Langdon Shaw, and Credence Barebone round out the crew. 

With two small cannon and a complement of about twenty men good with muskets, the _Eagle_ already has three prizes under her belt by the time that fighting breaks out at Lexington and Concord in 1775. News of the first privateer of the war–the _Unity_ –and her handy defeat of a British warship in the first naval battle of the Revolutionary War spreads quickly. And when the New York governor asks Seraphina if she and her crew will be willing to serve in the informal navy of the Continental Army as privateers, of course she says yes.

Together, the crew of the _Eagle_ will challenge the warships of the world’s most powerful navy on the high seas.  Running up a flag of thirteen stripes and thirteen stars, the _Eagle_ discovers a new loyalty, not only to their forming country, but to each other. They’ll go up against ships twice their size to take arms and gunpowder to help the beleaguered Continental Army, stop reinforcements from reaching the colonies, and capture British ships to serve in the new nation’s navy. Risking capture and death in their privateering activities, they can’t afford to be anything less than family. 

It’s a dangerous job, but the _Eagle’_ s crew wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it’s not quite pirates. But I’ve always found the story of privateers to be much more fascinating! [American Merchant Marine at War](http://www.usmm.org/revolution.html) provides a teal-backgrounded look at some of the actions of merchant marines and privateers in the Revolution, as well as relevant numbers of how many privateer ships served versus official Navy ships. [These “legal pirates” damaged British shipping to the tune of an estimated $18 million by the end of the war, or just over $302 million in today’s dollars](http://www.loeser.us/flags/revolution.html). A private ship brought into service during the Revolution was HIGHLY profitable!


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this is a story about homophobia and its effects on poor Credence.

“I haven’t felt bad about…anything in so long,” Credence murmurs, where he’s curled up on the couch. His back is to the room and Graves can’t see his face. 

“You’ve every right to be upset.” Graves sits cautiously, in the chair beside the couch. Credence doesn’t look up at the creak of springs. “That preacher sounds like he was…”

Credence gives a short, bitter laugh. “Awful?”

“Sounded like it.”

There’s a long, long silence. This isn’t over, Graves knows. Credence had decided, after a great deal of agonizing, that he should try church again. It had been a very hopeful morning. And now…this.

“He said a lot of things. Not witches or I’d have Apparated straight home. But. About men like…”

Oh.

“Like us,” Graves supplies. It’s a lance of pain straight through his chest, just to say it. Wizards don’t have explicit taboos against such things. In a world like theirs…they just can’t be bothered. The No-Majs are a different story.

“Yes,” Credence whispers. “Nothing…bad, just…”

It’s easy to imagine just what that preacher said. And it’s even easier to imagine what kind of impact that had on Credence, who’s still reeling from the vile life in Second Salem. Even if small, the words would have struck Credence like a Stunning Spell. 

“Will you be all right?” Graves aches to touch, to hold Credence’s hands, but right now he has to keep his hands off. He can’t hurt Credence more.

“I think so,” Credence says. “It just…hurt.”

Another long silence falls over the room. Graves isn’t sure what to say. He doesn’t even know if he can comfort Credence.

Finally, Credence speaks again. “My Bible is in the satchel beside the chair. First Samuel, Eighteen. Read it.”

Graves does as Credence says. 

_And it came to pass, when he had made an end of speaking unto Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul._

_And Saul took him that day, and would let him go no more home to his father’s house._

_Then Jonathan and David made a covenant, because he loved him as his own soul._

_And Jonathan stripped himself of the robe that was upon him, and gave it to David, and his garments, even to his sword, and to his bow, and to his girdle._

“Is this…what I think it is?”

“I always thought so.” Credence says softly. He turns over at last to look at Graves. “They kiss, in First Samuel Twenty. Right at the very end. Jonathan is practically willing to die for David. And that’s _King_ David, ancestor of Christ, and if he could love Jonathan like that…”

Graves scans the text again. “I see.”

“It’s right there.” Credence’s voice is soft. “Right there. And I still…”

“It’s right there,” Graves says. He closes the Bible and traces the cross embossed on the cover. “And whatever that preacher said is in the same book. Words have power, Credence, you know that. Levi _-o_ -sa, not Levio- _sa_ , remember?”

That gets a smile, and Graves smiles back, relieved. Credence still looks rightfully melancholy and like he might cry at any second, but at least he’s smiling. “I remember.”

“Didn’t someone say once that every man’s his own priest?”

Credence’s smile brightens a little. “Martin Luther, yes. He said a lot of things, when he broke from the Catholic Church. That was one of them, it’s why my mother…”

And there it is. Graves waits a moment, to see if Credence will finish the thought, and when he doesn’t, prompts: “Why your mother…?”

“…why she could have her own church like that.” Credence looks caught between fear and surprise and disappointment. “I know what you mean.”

It’s that everyone takes this book differently. It’s that Mary Lou and that preacher use the words to hurt and Credence is searching them for a sense of belonging. Even Graves knows that. And Credence does, too.

They sit in silence, Graves with a Bible on his lap and Credence thinking, gazing off with dark eyes. Despite the unnerving start to this conversation…Graves is confident that they’ll be all right. There’s nothing wrong with any of this. Forget Wilde’s “love that dare not speak its name”. Graves plans on speaking its name as much as possible, as often as he can. Credence deserves better; they both deserve better. 

By Giles Corey, everyone like them deserves better. And if there’s one thing that Graves is good at, it’s standing up for hopeless prospects and vulnerable people. He usually wins those battles.

And he’s certainly going to win this one.

“I love you, Percival,” Credence says softly, apropos of nothing.

Graves meets his eyes and smiles. “I love you too.”


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a snippet. I might expand at some point, but it's an idea I thought I should just drop here for now!

Jacob never wanted a soulmate. He was pretty glad, when he met Queenie. She didn’t have a soul mark at all, and his arrow sure wasn’t pointed at her. It would be good to date her, maybe marry her. He genuinely likes her, ain’t meant to be with her.

He can’t help noticing that his arrow’s going wild lately. Spinning, whirling around. But as they head for the subway, running down toward Newt and Tina where they chased the Obscurus, his arrow gets steadier and steadier. Who’s down there?

The President isn’t paying him any attention. There’s a big angry cloud of smoke—with a face, a hurting and agonized—which is taking much more attention. Jacob can’t take his eyes off the Obscurus. It’s mesmerizing.

And then something happens. The Obscurus…stops. It turns, midair, and then it MOVES. It barrels down the tunnel, stopping on a dime right in front of…

…Jacob.

A person coalesces out of the smoke, a pale young man with white eyes and a body streaming off into shapeless terror. His clothes are ripped and, on his bare arm, is an arrow.

Pointing right at Jacob.

Jacob looks down, dragging up his sleeve. His arrow is pointing right at this kid, right at the Obscurus.

<help me> the kid mouths. Jacob reaches out—

And the Aurors open fire.

***

Things have gotten a lot better since Jacob found that suitcase full of silver “Occamy eggshells”. He’s got a bakery now, he’s what you might start to call successful. He can afford a better apartment now, still small but in a better neighborhood.

The only odd thing is that his soulmate arrow never moves anymore. It always points toward one specific place–after a couple weeks of that, Jacob had gone to see out of curiosity where it was. Some subway tunnel. He doesn’t get it but, well, he’d never wanted anything to do with a soulmate anyway.

He’s home late one evening, just sitting down to listen to the Eveready Hour on the radio, when something alarming happens. 

His soulmate arrow erupts into motion.

Spinning in circles wildly, back and forth, and finally halting pointing right at the door. Jacob looks up in alarm, and then–

Someone knocks.

He goes to the door slowly, and whoever’s there knocks again. Quick, frantic. It takes a moment to fumble with the latch, and then Jacob has the door open. 

The person on the other side is…sort of not a person at all.

It takes a moment to process, to understand what he’s seeing. Wide white eyes in a terrified young face, a tall frame dressed in rags, streaming off into a cloud of smoke, shifting weirdly at the edges like a smeared painting. 

“Help me,” the young man says hoarsely, “help me, please, I don’t have anywhere else to go–”

He holds out one shaking arm, and yes, that is an arrow pointing right at Jacob.

With a sense of finality, Jacob steps back, door wide open. “Come on in,” he says, not sure how he hasn’t had a stroke from shock. “I guess if you ain’t got anywhere else to go you might as well be here.”


	34. Chapter 34

He isn’t sure why she comes to visit him.

_She isn’t sure at first why she comes, either._

Percival Graves has been replaced. Permanently limping, scarred in a hundred ways both visible and invisible, he is relegated to the hospital until he recuperates. And, out of pity, a new Director of Magical Security and Head of MLE have been chosen.

Two people, he thinks scornfully, how incompetent they must be to have to fill the positions with two separate people!

_Queenie hears the screaming ache inside him that claims he should never have been director at all, if he was so incompetent as to be taken by Grindelwald._

And Queenie Goldstein just won’t leave him alone. 

_She can’t leave him alone._

In the aftermath of it all, a coffee girl from Wand Permits he’s never noticed once is the only person to visit regularly. He’s driven off the pity of his colleagues and peers, he’s ignored by the great and powerful, none of his Aurors will visit him. But Queenie Goldstein comes by every couple of days, even if only to pop her head in and smile and wave.

_Queenie gets used to it, to looking in on him. He doesn’t know it yet, but the way his thoughts look are almost the way that they should look if she were really his friend. She hopes he notices soon._

When he’s finally discharged from the hospital and…home…again, Queenie keeps visiting. She brings by pie or cookies and, after a while, she stays one evening to make him a decent dinner. Graves has no idea what to make of this woman, fifteen or more years his junior, who gives him sunny smiles and always says exactly the thing he needs to hear.

_The bakery where she buys her gifts doesn’t bear thinking about, so she doesn’t. She focuses on Graves, who’s in pieces and cutting himself on his own sharp edges. And yet he’s polite and quiet and doesn’t stare at her or think uncomfortable things. She catches him thinking she’s pretty, but…everyone thinks she’s pretty. It doesn’t signify._

And then summer is here, and they’re walking in the park together. Graves isn’t sure how he ended up here and it’s deeply unsteady ground, but he doesn’t mind. They keep away from discomforting topics. A dead young man with raging magic in his soul, a good-natured baker Obliviated and gone away.

No: they appear, by some bizarre circumstance, to need neither of these people except in memories. Instead, they’ve come to mean a lot to each other. Graves likes Queenie’s good nature and sweet voice. She’s genuine. Smart and kind and funny. She makes him feel like he isn’t quite so broken.

_She didn’t know, before, how to go on. Tina does. She writes to Newt and daydreams of far-away places, but Queenie can’t dream of bigger things anymore. Something broke, seeing under the surface. They all forget that she had to hear Credence, that she had to hear Grindelwald, that she had to hear as Jacob’s memories melted away in that apocalyptic rain._

_Graves makes her want to dream._


	35. Chapter 35

For just a moment, let’s pretend three things are true. One: the Triwizard Tournament wasn’t discontinued in 1792. Two: students of any age can theoretically compete, though younger students are unlikely to take a place. Three: it’s not just three European schools.

This year, the Triwizard Tournament is to be held at Ilvermorny. Hogwarts and the (unnamed-since-JKR-can’t-be-bothered) Chinese school will participate as the other two contenders. There is great excitement in the student body: they’ll be hosting foreign students for an entire year while dangerous competitions happen on school grounds.

Though many Ilvermorny students intend to try for a position, two are generally agreed to be the best bets. Percival Graves, Wampus, heir of the Original Twelve’s most prodigious member, seventh year; Seraphina Picquery, Horned Serpent, chosen by all four Ilvermorny houses, the brightest witch of her age.

Tina and Queenie Goldstein, sixth- and fifth-year students respectively, also want to enter. Queenie’s best-friend-turned-boyfriend Jacob Kowalski, a Pukwudgie who just barely has enough magic to make it as a wizard but is better at potions than anybody else at school, doesn’t plan on it. First-year Credence Barebone, a shy, nervous boy from a No-Maj family who was sorted into Wampus for reasons no one understands and is forever at Percival’s heels, considers entering–but thinks better of it.

The great day comes when the other schools arrive. The students who have come from the other schools are their best and brightest, and when the champions are chosen few are disappointed. From Hogwarts, Theseus Scamander; from the Chinese school, Ya Zhou. They’re both clever and brilliant indeed, and to Ilvermorny, this seems like a death knell.

After all, who expected Queenie Goldstein to be selected as Ilvermorny’s Triwizard contender?

So it goes. Ilvermorny’s students pull together to support Queenie, despite mutterings of discontent. When Newt Scamander and Jacob fall in together during a disastrous incident on the Quodpot field, they instantly become best friends, dragging Newt’s best friend Leta Lestrange right into the mix. Meanwhile, Ya and Seraphina can’t help looking at each other across halls, first with competitiveness and envy, and then with admiration, and then with…something else. 

It’s certain to be an absolutely wild year at Ilvermorny.

And it only gets wilder when the fantastic beasts intended to be used in the Triwizard Tasks begin arriving on the school’s grounds.


	36. Chapter 36

Newt Scamander is certainly not a wizard, thank you very much.

No, Newt Scamander is a former lion tamer at a circus. He came into possession of a most magical case full of fantastical beasts, a case which he certainly didn’t enchant himself. And he certainly didn’t take midnight flight from his former employer, embarking on a steamship to the United States, where he’s set up as a circus owner in his own right. 

Accompanying him is quite the menagerie of acts. Queenie Goldstein and Ya Zhou are high-flying trapeze artists. Seraphina Picquery is a stunning bareback rider and acrobat. Tina Goldstein performs sleight of hand and ‘mind-reading’. Newt’s brother Theseus is an expert clown and strong man, and his fiancee Leta Lestrange sings and plays music for the circus. 

But Newt needs a ringmaster.

In New York City he meets Jacob Kowalski, who he believes will be absolutely perfect as a ringmaster. It doesn’t take much to persuade Jacob to come along, when the circus promises a lot better in life. 

When they discover three stowaways–the three Barebone siblings, Credence, Chastity, and Modesty–Newt doesn’t send them away either. Instead he gives them acts in the circus. Modesty makes a good miniature clown, Chastity takes tickets and plays piano, and Credence is happiest working with the animals.

Enter one Percival Graves, private investigator. 

He is simultaneously approached by three separate people looking for Newt Scamander’s Magical Circus. Mary Lou Barebone is looking for her children, who she claims were kidnapped by the circus. Langdon Shaw is chasing what he sees as a story that could make him famous. And Gellert Grindelwald is in hot pursuit of the man who stole his suitcase. 

Of course Graves takes it on. Who could resist such a fascinating case? He and Langdon set off west, following the trail of the circus. Wherever Newt and company go, audiences are left riotously satisfied. It’s not hard to know where they’ve been.

But when they catch up to the circus, Graves and Langdon are caught up _in_ the circus. It doesn’t take long for Graves to realize that the Barebone children fled their adoptive mother under their own power, and only slightly longer for him to understand that Newt took the case from Grindelwald so he could protect the beasts within. 

Now, as they race west, performing shows night after night, Graves and Langdon become part of the show. Langdon is the new barker, and the one who puts advertisements in the paper and on storefronts when the circus comes to town. Graves finds a position as a foil for Theseus’ clowning routines, and also discovers some serious affection for one Credence Barebone. 

Everything is going extraordinarily, magically well. 

But Grindelwald has realized he’s been betrayed, and is hot on their heels, heading for a showdown in the center of the ring…


End file.
